“Friends? But you just said I was the enemy.” His hands tighten around the bars.
“I know what I said. Take the title or don’t.”
“I’ll take it,” he says quickly.
“Good. Now just promise you’ll never tell my dad,” I say as I extend my hand and pop out my pinky.
His pinky wraps around mine. “Promise.” My finger tingles, and my eyes snap to his to see if he feels it too, but before I can figure it out, he’s letting it go and asking, “Why can’t I tell your father we’re friends?”
One of the teachers blows a whistle, and we both turn toward the sound. However, I must whip my head around too fast, because everything spins. Before I know it, my hands are slipping, and I'm falling. I crash to the ground hard, and it feels like all the air is sucked from my lungs as sharp rocks dig into my back. I can feel that my arm is twisted funny underneath me, but when I try to move it, my head explodes with the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I blink, and a hand is on my arm, a shadow at my side, and I hear Trigger calling for me, but he sounds so far away. Another sharp pain rips through my head, and then everything goes dark.
FRESHMAN YEAR
ASHA
“That did not just happen,” I say in horror as I bring my hands to my face and wipe off the water. “Tell me I’m not soaked.”
“Oh, my god.” My friend Emma moves to my front, her eyes scanning my body. “You’re drenched.” Blue eyes drift up to mine. “Completely wet.” She holds my gaze, her eyes empathetic for all of two seconds before her lips start to curl into the start of a smile.
“You are not about to laugh,” I say, wholeheartedly upset. “This is so not funny. You know how important today is to me.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s not funny.” She pulls her backpack off and unzips it. “You can wear my sweater.” She offers me her Ridgewood embroidered pullover. I stare at the sweater, shocked that I’m standing on the side of the road for my first day of freshman year with my outfit completely ruined. “We can run back to the dorms and change. We’ll only miss the first period.”
“No.” I take the sweater defeatedly. “I can’t skip first period. I have Mr. Greco, and he’s one of the teachers who oversees the council.”
She blows out a breath. “Okay, well, let’s hurry up, and you can freshen up in the bathroom…” she trails off, pinching the top of the sodden papers I’m still clutching against my chest. “We can make you a new banner during homeroom.”
This is what I get for stopping at the stables instead of walking straight to campus. I needed to see Buttercup before my first day; she's my reminder of home. Dad sent me to Ridgewood when I was six, and Buttercup has been my comfort since. Pressing my face into her neck almost brings back my mom's laugh in the stables back home.
She's my good luck charm, and God knows I needed it today for my first day of freshman year. Apparently, the universe had other plans. My uniform now clings to me like a second skin. My once-pristine white knee socks are splattered with mud. Fantastic. I look ahead. What once seemed picturesque and magical now feels like a postcard gone wrong.
The white-trimmed dormers and tall chimneys that have always felt so stately and welcoming now feel like they're watching me trudge up the hill like a soggy disgrace. Ridgewood is surrounded by the rolling Adirondack foothills, maples and birches pressing in on all sides. In autumn, the trees are gorgeous, all gold and crimson like a painting. But now, in the gray August morning, their branches look skeletal against the low clouds.
“Whose car was that anyway?” I say as I clomp toward the entrance where clusters of students in perfectly pressed uniforms are already gathered.
“I don’t know. It must be someone new. No one drives to school.”
No one drives to school because Ridgewood isn’t your typical private school. It’s a boarding school, and we're all trapped here behind ivy-covered walls. Our student body is a catalogof wealthy dysfunction, split into three types: the misfits, the afterthoughts, and the silver spoons.
The misfits were shipped off by parents who had given up. They hoped boarding school could fix what years of therapy couldn't. The afterthoughts come from families too busy with mergers and galas to raise their own kids. They learned early that nannies make better listeners than mothers.
Then there are the silver spoons, the legacy kids. They see this place not as exile but as birthright. They walk these halls like they own them. In many ways, they do.
Three types of wealth, three types of damage, all in matching navy blazers. Except for me. Mine is now splattered with mud, but I suppose it’s only fitting. I’ve never been able to fit myself into one of those boxes. My reason for being shipped off to boarding school isn’t black and white. As messed up as it sounds, I wish it were.
“Asha, I know today started off shit, but you have this in the bag. You’ve been at the top of our class since third grade. Everyone is scared of you,” Emma says as she finishes coloring in the last bubble letter on my new banner.
“What?” I question, confused, looking up from the printer.
“You know what I mean. Everyone knows you’re smart, and this is your thing. No one would dare try to take this from you. You’re focused on more than changing the snacks in the vending machines.” She snaps the lid on a marker. “And I can promise no one wants to go head-to-head with you in a debate.” Standing up, she smooths her skirt. “So, it’s like I said, you’ve got this in the bag.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Eldridge pops his head up from the back row, startling us both.
“How long have you been sitting there, you little twerp?” Emma asks, her hand over her heart as she glares at her twin brother. They’re twins, but technically she’s three minutes older and never fails to remind him of that tiny detail.
“I suppose as long as you.” He smiles. “Did I scare you? I didn’t mean to,” he says sincerely as his eyes roam down my body, taking in my disheveled appearance, only fueling the self-consciousness that’s already plagued me for the first half of the day.
I don’t have any romantic feelings for Eldridge Morrison, but he’s also not hard to look at. He’s your typical pretty boy and mirror image of his sister with blond hair and blue eyes, the only difference being his tall stature, angular face, and muscles that refuse to stay hidden beneath a polo and vest.
