The Bleak Beginning (Altair University #1)

8. Alex

Chapter 8

Alex

“ I ’m not responsible for this. It wasn’t my idea. And I feel that this is a personal injustice against me,” I say, charging into Chancellor Maxwell’s office with her summons fisted in my hand.

She doesn’t bother lifting her head from whatever she was reading. “Turn around and try again,” she says, waving a dismissive finger my way.

I huff and stomp out, slamming the door behind me. The nerve of that woman.

Gritting my teeth, I spin on my heel and knock, trying again.

“Enter,” comes her crisp voice from within.

I step inside, my posture rigid, but a half pinch more respectful.

She finally looks up, her steely eyes appraising me. “Much better.”

“You summoned ?” I say, dropping into the seat across from her.

Chancellor Maxwell leans back in her chair, her hands steepled under her chin. “Indeed I did, Miss Prescott. It seems we have a situation on our hands.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. If by ‘situation’ you mean Bishop tricking me into the water and then watching me nearly drown with the rest of my classmates, then yeah, I guess we do.

My stomach churns. “Shouldn’t Bishop be in here too?”

“It was only you I wanted to talk to,” she says dryly.

“So I’m the only one being punished? That’s completely unfair!”

Chancellor Maxwell raises an eyebrow. “I’m well aware of the incident that took place down by the boathouse, but you managed to make it here just fine. This summons is about how you’re adjusting here at Altair. That is what concerns me most at the present.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, caught off guard by her response. I hadn’t expected this to be our topic of discussion.

So I’ve had a few hiccups. And most people here want nothing to do with me. Semantics, really.

“I’m adjusting fine,” I lie, my voice tight. “There’s nothing to be concerned about.”

Chancellor Maxwell leans forward. “Is that so? Because from what I’ve observed, and from the reports I’ve received from your instructors, you seem to be struggling to find your place here.”

I shift my head to the side, fighting back a wave of emotion. “It’s not exactly easy being the new girl.” Especially when the Legacies have made you target number one.

“You’ve been here for an entire week now. In that time, you’ve had altercations with multiple students, you’ve destroyed property, and you seem unable to form any meaningful connections with your peers. This is not the progress we hoped to see, and from a Prescott, no less.”

I grip my thighs, my fingers digging into the fabric of my skirt. “With all due respect, not all of those things were my fault.”

She sighs, a hint of sympathy creeping into her expression. “I understand that. But you must also understand that your actions have consequences.”

I glance at the clock, counting the seconds as they pass by.

I swallow hard, trying to keep my composure. “I’m aware of that, Chancellor. But it’s not like I’m actively seeking out trouble. It just…seems to find me.”

“Perhaps. But it’s your responsibility to learn how to handle situations without escalating them. You come from a long line of Prescott’s, and with that comes certain expectations.”

I bite back a retort about how those expectations are exactly what’s making my life here a living hell. Instead, I force a nod. “I understand.”

The air between us grows heavy with tense silence, the only sound the faint ticking of a clock.

“We’re not in the business of giving up on our students, Miss Prescott, despite what you may believe.”

“However,” she continues, her tone growing stern, “we do expect our students to make an effort to integrate into our community. Your intentional isolation is not just detrimental to you, but to the entire student body.”

I bite back a bitter laugh. As if the other students would even give me a chance.

“What do you suggest I do?” I ask, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“Well, it would appear you have yet to choose an extracurricular, and as we previously discussed, it’s mandatory for every student enrolled here.”

I suppress a groan. Extracurriculars. The bane of my existence. I’d managed to dodge that bullet for an entire week, but it seems my luck has finally run out.

“Chancellor, I’ve been adjusting,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I wasn’t sure which activity would be the best fit.”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying my excuse. “It’s time to make a decision. I have a list of available clubs and teams.” She slides a paper across her polished oak desk. “I’ve updated your schedule next week with a few suggestions that I thought might interest you.”

I take the list, my eyes scanning the options without really seeing them. Archery. Debate. Fencing. Rowing.

“You have until the end of next week to shadow a few, choose one, and inform me of your selection.”

“And if I don’t?” The words slip past my lips before I can stop them. Every single one of these clubs or teams would force me to interact with the very people I was hoping to avoid.

The Chancellor’s eyes flicker with irritation, her lips pulling into a stern line. “Then I will choose for you. And I assure you, my selection will be far less…accommodating to your preferences.”

I swallow hard, knowing full well what she means. Visions of me being forced into the school orchestra or—heaven forbid—the peppy, overly perky cheerleading squad flash through my mind. The thought alone is enough to make me want to crawl under a rock and never come out.

A cold stone settled in my stomach, heavy and unforgiving. Clara had always been the lively one growing up, full of energy and charm. Maybe that was why our mother had always favored her over me.

“I understand,” I mutter, clutching the paper a little tighter. “I’ll look into these options.”

“Excellent,” she says, her stern expression ever present. “Now onto our next topic of discussion,” she notes, her eyes briefly checking the time on the clock.

This woman and her need for being punctual.

“Your room. I heard about the unfortunate incident with the pipes.”

A fresh wave of dread washes over me. Of course she’d heard about that. Nothing stays secret for long in this place.

“It wasn’t my fault,” I blurt out, wincing at how defensive I sound.

“I know it wasn’t your fault. It appears the pipes had already rusted through, and you just happened to be the unlucky one there when they finally gave out.” She arches her brow. “Although I was confused as to why you didn’t use your call box as soon as the incident happened.”

Call box? What call box?

“Anyway,” she continues. “Seeing as this happened last night, I assume the RA for the building has already made accommodations for you?”

“Something like that…” I say.

“Do they meet your standards?”

A utility closet with a musty old cot? I wouldn’t consider that my first choice.

“My accommodations are…adequate.” I say slowly.

Chancellor Maxwell observes me, and I can tell she doesn’t fully believe me, but why should she? We just discussed how much I don’t fit in, and I haven’t had the best start here at this institution.

“Right, well, we’ve ordered a rushed cleanup, so you should have your room back by the end of the weekend.” She leans forward, appraising me once more. “Are you sure you’ll be fine for the next few days?”

I swear it’s as if she’s testing me, but I fail again because I just dip my chin in agreement.

“Very well,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “I trust you’ll inform me if anything changes. My door is always open for scheduled discussions if you need assistance.”

I nod, eager to escape her scrutiny. As I stand to leave, she adds, “And Miss Prescott? Do try your best to stay out of trouble. We wouldn’t want any more…incidents.”

Grateful for the dismissal, I quickly made my exit. As I step into the hallway, the weight of my decisions that led me to this university settle on my shoulders. The utility closet flashes in my mind—the musty smell, the flickering light, the cramped space barely big enough for the cot. But I’ve made my bed, quite literally, and now I have to lie in it.

The corridor bustles with students rushing to their next classes. I blend into the crowd, my mind racing. How am I going to survive the next few days in that closet?

Thank goodness, it was Friday, so maybe campus wouldn’t be as hectic, students going out or staying in their rooms enough not to notice.

Hoping to hype myself up for what will be the longest weekend ever, I decide to head over to the mail office to see if I have any incoming mail. I hadn’t bothered to check my box since I arrived, but maybe Clara had gotten back to me.

The mailroom is a quaint building at the edge of campus made of ancient, weathered stone, surrounded by a few neatly trimmed bushes. As I push open the heavy glass doors, the smell of cardboard and plastic-wrapped parcels hits my face.

The mailroom is mercifully quiet, most students having already collected their packages and letters for the weekend, and I couldn’t be more relieved.

I head to the far north side and find my box number among row after row of tiny gold metal boxes lining both sides of the walls. My heart leaps at the sight of a single envelope inside mine as I open it.

Eagerly, I flip it over, hoping for good news from Clara. But as I scan the outside of the envelope, my spirits plummet. This isn’t from Clara; it’s from Elle.

My dad’s girlfriend was the last person I expected to receive any sort of mail from.

I shove the envelope between the pages of my textbook, refusing to even open it.

As I turn to leave, the sound of the door opening catches my attention. I glance up, a dull throb running across my temples when I recognize the familiar silhouettes of my shadow, followed by two others.

The Legacies.

I freeze, before quickly hiding behind a pillar.

“No way! I wish I could’ve been there to see it myself.” Camden’s voice echoes in the quiet room. “I bet she was flopping around like a fish out of water.”

“Yeah, but then Atlas had to go and save her,” Bishop says as their voices get closer.

“Atlas.” Sylvester scoffs. “That guy has the biggest savior complex I’ve ever seen. He’s always trying to ruin our fun.”

“Well, consider yourself lucky, because I heard Ophelia will be spending the next three weekends with him trying to save the oceans, or whatever,” Camden says with a laugh.

“That must’ve been priceless,” Sylvester agrees, and I swear I can hear the smirk in his voice.

These guys are so awful.

“Guess you won’t have to worry about seeing her this weekend, huh?” he questions Bishop.

I press myself closer to the pillar, straining to hear more of their conversation. The Legacies’ voices grow louder as they approach right on the other side of where I stand. I flatten my back further against the wall.

“Did you get the code for Prescott’s mailbox?” Bishop asks.

What? So embarrassing me in front of the entire school and watching me almost drown wasn’t enough? Now they wanted to go through my things?

“Got it right here,” Camden says, followed by what I assume is him pulling out a slip of paper from his pocket. “0-8-0-9. Easy enough to remember.”

“Good,” Bishop agrees, just as I decide to chance a peek.

“It better be,” Camden grumbles, tugging at his dark locks. “I had to trade the dweeb behind the counter an entire jar of styling gel for it.”

“Aw, I’m sure your hair will survive a few days until you can get more,” Sylvester says with mock-sympathy, running his hand through his friend’s hair, messing it up as Camden swats him away.

“I can’t help that everyone wants to replicate these locks,” he says, smoothing his rumpled hair back into place. “I’m a trendsetter, what can I say?”

“Can we get back on task?” Bishop snarls.

“Right, right,” Sylvester says, his tone suddenly serious. “So what exactly are we looking for in her mail?”

Bishop lowers his voice, and I have to strain to hear. “Anything we can use against her. Letters from home, packages, whatever. There’s got to be something we can exploit.”

“And if we don’t find anything?” Camden asks.

“Then we plant something,” Bishop replies coldly. “We already learned she can’t swim, so we have that advantage, but we need as many as we can get to make sure she doesn’t try out for our team for the Altair games.”

“Or better yet, she just leaves,” Camden says.

“Exactly,” Bishop agrees.

Suddenly, Slyvester curses, looking down at the expensive-looking watch on his arm. The buzz fills the quiet room, a low mechanical hum that grows louder with each vibration.

Cursing again, he clicks a button on the side and excuses himself from the room.

“Probably his sister,” Camden says as Bishop enters my code and makes himself welcome in my mailbox.

“Bet he regrets agreeing to wear the watch she got him for his birthday.” Bishop grunts before slamming my mailbox shut with a metallic thud. “Empty.”

“Yeah, all she has to do is buzz that thing and he comes running,” Camden notes.

“It’s not like it doesn’t work both ways with them.”

“Truth.” He snorts.

“We’ll try again next week,” Bishop grunts.

Camden sighs, leaning against the row of mailboxes. “What now?”

A calculating look crosses my shadow’s face. “We’ll have to get creative until we find something useful. Maybe we can sneak into her room, see if there’s anything there we can use.”

“Breaking and entering? Wasn’t messing with the plumbing in her building enough?” Camden asks, though his tone suggests he’s more excited than concerned.

Bishop waves him off. “That building has been decaying for years, ever since her family's betrayal led to students refusing to live there.”

“True…” Camden agrees. “It's become the dorm of last resort.”

“You want to win, don’t you?” Bishop snaps. “We can’t let a traitor like Prescott ruin our chances of success. We’ve worked too hard for this. Our families won’t be mocked again.”

Camden nods, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You’re right. We’ve come too far to let a Prescott ruin everything for us.”

Bishop’s emerald eyes gleam with a dangerous light. “Prescott shouldn’t be back in her room for at least a few days. I say we do some digging. See what we find.”

“Brilliant,” Camden concurs. “Come on, let’s get out of here and find Sly.”

As they turn to leave, I press myself further into the shadows, willing myself to become invisible. Just as I think I’m in the clear, Camden pauses, his head cocked to one side.

“Do you hear something?” he asks Bishop, peering in my general direction.

I suppress a gasp, my hand flying to my mouth.

Bishop glances around impatiently. “It’s probably just a rat. You know the older buildings are usually crawling with them. Come on, we’re wasting time.”

“A rat? I thought that was only a problem in Prescott Dormitory?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Bishop agrees, looking around with a smirk. “But let's be real, a few of them probably escaped from the dorm. They must have realized it wasn't even suitable for human living.”

Camden snorts. “Yeah, the whole dorm's a disaster. It’s like they’re breeding them in there or something.”

“Right?” Bishop shakes his head, chuckling. “I bet half of the students living there don’t even know the difference between a rat and their roommate.”

“If anything, the rats in that building have more dignity than the people living there. At least they know when to hide,” Camden adds, pausing and glancing towards my hiding spot. I mentally urge him to leave as my muscles tense up. Eventually, he shrugs and turns away. “Let's go. Hey, want to place bets on how long Alex's bag will stay hanging outside? My money is on at least until the pre-trial game.”

“That’s it?” I hear Bishop remark, his differing opinion clear. “I bet it outlives her time here completely, and it’ll catch the wind like a sail for years to come.”

“Think so?”

“After what I witnessed earlier, Prescott won’t have the guts to take it down herself, and no one else will dare touch it. It’ll stay up there as a constant reminder of her shame.”

“And our enduring triumph,” Camden adds confidently.

Their voices fade as they move away, but I remain frozen in my hiding spot, my body trembling in silent rage.

I wait until their footsteps fade completely before I allow myself to exhale. My legs feel weak with relief, and I slump against the pillar, trying to process everything I just overheard.

The Altair games, family betrayals, sabotage—it’s all too much. But one thing is clear, these boys were nowhere near done playing games, but now I could play right back.

They want to break into my room? Fine, I’ll be waiting. In the meantime, I have some fake mail to leave for them. They want to play games? They were about to find out I can play better.

As I turn to leave, I notice a flyer on the bulletin board: Altair Academy Annual Masquerade Ball.

The ornate lettering catches my eye, and a plan starts to form in my mind. A masquerade would be the perfect opportunity to potentially gather more information without being recognized. I could blend in, eavesdrop on conversations, maybe even get close to the Legacies without them realizing who I am.

I quickly memorize the details on the flyer before slipping out of my hiding spot.

If they think I’m going to continue to be their punching bag, they can think again. A chill prickles at the back of my neck.

Never again.