This time, I open the door with more force than needed. The hinges shriek in protest. Not caring, I shut the door just as carelessly, and its screech makes the hair on the back of my neck bristle.
It’s my little revenge against Professor Taylor. Asshole. He didn’t have to be so unsympathetic and rude.
As I walk down the hallway, I text Grant again.
–Me: This is Aspen from the Culture and Music in History class. We really do need to talk about our assignment. Are you available anytime soon? It’s due in four days!
I wait a few heartbeats. Nothing. I check my inbox. Nada there. I’m pretty sure at least one of my emails has reached his inbox. Just in case, I sent him emails using multiple accounts.
Bastard!
–Me: If I get an F because of you, I’m going to kick your ass!
Texting that little threat feels good, but it’s not going to be effective. There can’t be any ass kicking if I can’t find him!
As much as I hate Professor Taylor’s attitude, I have no choice but to track Grant down. He can’t ignore me if I show up in person and demand that he pull his weight on the project.
Assuming I can find out where he is.
I’m not part of his social circle, which is mainly kids with wealthy parents. The rumor is that even though he parties all night and sleeps all day, professors give him A’s anyway because his parents are important. But I don’t know how much of that is true, since not all the staff are like Professor Taylor. From what I overheard, Grant’s mom is a famous photographer and his dad is some hotshot movie producer in Hollywood. Every girl on campus thinks he’s God’s personal gift to them, and every guy wants to be him.
I snort. They only care about him because of his incredibly cool parents. And if there’s any justice in the world, he’ll be short, ugly and smelly.
I open one of the social media apps, and go into the group for my graduating class. I type:
Has anybody seen Grant Lasker recently?]
As soon as I hit post, a photo from another girl pops up on my feed. It’s of some guys on horses. Her post reads:
#Polo #Hot
She’s tagged all the players. I see Grant Lasker in bold.
Yes!I delete my post and look up where the polo team practices. The field is forty minutes from the campus. If I leave now, I might be able to catch him.
I start huffing as I dash across campus to the student parking garage. God, I’m out of shape, but I pump my legs faster. There’s no way I’m missing my delinquent partner.
I locate my ten-year-old blue Mazda3, hop in, dump my backpack on the passenger seat and peel out.
The two-lane road to the polo field cuts through several large vineyards. So much green, stretching away like God shook out a blanket of landscape and left it rumpled before the wine growers came in and arranged everything into orderly rows. And so much blue above—the sky is cloudless, the weather absolutely perfect, giving me a little pang of missing sunny SoCal. But unlike in L.A., the roads here aren’t congested. I see all of three other cars along the way.
About thirty minutes later, I pull into a large lot with several gleaming sports cars and sedans from luxury European manufacturers. My unwashed and unwaxed car stands out like a homeless child at a fancy ball.
The huge rectangular blue and green sign in front reads:
Napa Polo and Equestrian Club
To all visitors,
Welcome to our lovely club!
I climb out of the car, trying to shake off a vague sense of unease and shame over how I don’t fit in, despite the sign. I’m not going to be poor forever. Napa Aquinas College isn’t just a place for me to chill out and discover myself before I get out into the world and have to start adulting. It’s a stepping stone to the bigger and better things I’ve planned for my future. A fabulous job, and a comfortable and stable life. So long as I work hard, everything is within reach.
Beyond the parking lot is a white two-story building by a huge field. Shaded stands spread out on each side of the building, and pristine ivory tables with matching parasols dot the white metal fence that encircles a massive outdoors area.
The polo team is easy to spot. They’re on the gigantic ground—almost ten times the size of a football field—and making enough noise to rouse the deceased. Eight players on sleek horses gallop back and forth in groups.
I straighten my back and start toward the white metal fence. Several girls from the school are seated at the tables, their designer sunglasses covering their expertly made-up faces. Pitchers with iced drinks sweat on the tabletops.
