The morning started strange with that weird pull I felt when I saw Eden. It stuck with me longer than I liked, lingering like a bad aftertaste. But somehow, the morning ended even stranger—Frankie managing to convince me to stick around after school to watch her cheer practice with the other girls.
Don't ask me how I said yes, because I still don't know.
So far, though, Royal Beacon High wasn't the nightmare I'd expected. The students were tolerable, no one had tried anything too bold, and the teachers were mostly impressive. For now, it earned a solid eight out of ten.
"Windsor! See me after class," the algebra teacher called as she circled our homework on the board for the students at the back who looked like they take a long drag of smoke whenever she looked away.
The teacher, Cecilia Vegas, moved with this air about her, like she belonged somewhere else, somewhere wealthier. She had the kind of poise that screamed old money, though it was obvious that money was long gone. The way she carried herself—everything about her said she came from fallen wealth. It's good that the fashion sense stuck with her long enough.
I'd noticed that about Royal Beacon. They didn't hire just anyone. Either you were someone who other schools couldn't get, or you were someone with a glorious past who'd fallen from grace. Like our Spanish teacher, Serafina Díaz—banished heiress of the Díaz Textiles empire, THE Díaz Textiles you know about, yes. Hiring names like hers added prestige, and parents loved the idea of their kids learning from "connected" people, they'd kill for it.
And don't even get me started on the alumni. Singers, CEOs, heirs—Royal Beacon loved to flaunt its star-studded history.
But enough about that.
Class ended with Frankie giving me a quick, apologetic look before motioning toward the window. She mouthed something about me heading out first, shoved her books into her bag, and bolted to go find out what Miss Vegas wanted her for.
I took my time packing up, scrolling through my phone casually. Everyone else seemed too busy in their own cliques and gossip circles to notice anyone else. Blanche wasn't going into the business major, so, of course—she wasn't in my class.
That was until I heard my name being called. I didn't look up immediately, mostly because I knew that If I didn't recognize the voice, it wasn't worth my time. And seriously, do I have to correct every single person?
It's Fucking BLAKELY!
The person approached, chewing her gum obnoxiously loud, holding a small box. The air about her screamed "I think I'm the main character." "you must have sense the main character energy" "oh fear me"
Okay, I might be exaggerating but let's see, shall we.
"Daddy sent lunch," she said, her voice laced with mockery. She giggled, like she'd just told the funniest joke in the world.
I came to notice that either people fawned over my barbie-ish looks or become jealous and wants to scratch my face.
My phone pinged, and I glanced at it instead of her.
BLANCHE: My dad wants you to have it. Get your own lunch from now on.
Jackson sent it.
The timestamp on her last message caught my eye—it was over a year ago, from when my mother had dragged me out with the staff to find Blanche after she stayed out all night. I could still feel the irritation bubbling at the memory. I had sent her strings of every curses I could think off and the last one was me wishing she fell and died wherever she was.
Well, unfortunately. She didn't.
I locked my phone and shoved it back into my bag without replying, and dragged my withering attention back to the girl.
She popped open the box, revealing a tray of perfectly iced doughnuts. They looked good—mouthwatering, even—but I didn't recognize the brand, I didn't trust unknown brands. The last time I took a chance on "kind offerings," I ended up with food poisoning.
Before I could dismiss her, or even tell her to have it, she dragged her pinky across one of the doughnuts, scooping a line of icing, and licked it off her finger.
Bile rose in my throat, my stomach churning. My face must have betrayed me because she smirked.
"Licked it, so it's mine. What? Are you gonna cry?"
Cry?
I'm sorry, do I have I blanket over my face? Was I the only one feeling sheer disgust.
"Oh girl. Look, she's sad!" she teased, turning to a girl with an ridiculous emo aesthetic who chuckled half-heartedly, like she'd clip the girl shut if she could.
"Isn't she Frankie's sister or cousin or something?" I heard someone mutter in between.
I rolled my eyes and gave her a tight smile. "You look more hungry than I do. You can have it."
That seemed to both shock and piss her off, and I'm surprised she has the ability to sport both expression. "For someone who can't tell the difference between disgust and sadness, you sure know how to feel two expression at once, perfectly well at that" I added.
She opened her mouth to reply, but I cut her off with a deliberate poke to her chest.
Her gasp was dramatic, her eyes flicking to my perfectly manicured nails pressing against her shirt. "Um, do you know who I am?"
Ah, the classic line. If I get given a souffle everytime someone asked me that, I'd have my own souffle brand by now. "Miss Hungry, who else?"
Before she could recover, I kept poking her, each word emphasized with a sharp jab. "Now" poke "The" poke "Next" poke "Time" poke. Her expression morphed from shock to disbelief as I continued. "You touch my stuff," poke "I'll have your hand for it, sweetie." Poke "And I hope whatever it is will be worth it."
Her emo friend had already taken a step back, clearly unwilling to be part of the show. A few other students were gathering, their whispers growing louder.
I gave her one last poke for good measure, purely for my own entertainment. The way she gasped with every jab was incredibly satisfying.
"Now, out of my way."
She didn't move at first, standing there like I'd just told her we were long-lost sisters.
I raised an eyebrow, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Look, I eat enough protein to be able to haul you across this room. Don't make me prove it. Scram!"
She flinched, finally stepping aside, and I brushed past her without another word. Behind me, the murmurs grew louder, mixing with disbelief and amusement.
First day? Six out of ten.