Chapter Two
TWO
We fly commercial. That’s what Cecilia says, though it just means we fly on a normal plane—as opposed, apparently, to a private jet, because, as she explains, they’re a bad look these days. Oh, Chamberlain Enterprises has one, of course, but they don’t use it when anyone might be watching.
Flying commercial does not mean flying “coach,” which seems to be the word for the section where most people sit. We’re in first class, and the luxury of that is completely lost on me, as someone who’s never even flown before.
When the meal arrives, Cecilia waves hers away, whispering to me, “It’s terrible. I’ll feed you properly later.”
The flight attendant hovers, tray outreached toward me, and my stomach growls loud enough for Cecilia to hear it. With a look that might be a flush of embarrassment, she takes the tray with thanks and hands it to me.
“When did you last eat?” she asks softly.
“I had lunch.” I won’t mention that it was an apple from the box of “healthy snacks” my cafeteria puts out for free.
When you’re trying to keep a roof over your head, you calculate the exact amount of food you need to get through the day without fainting.
In my case, it’s two bananas, one apple, and a packet of ramen mixed with canned tuna.
“How did my grandparents find me?”
Cecilia stiffens before catching herself. “Hmm?”
“How did my grandparents find me?” I repeat.
Silence stretches so long that I glance over.
Finally, she says, “Your mother sent me a photo every year at the holidays. When I didn’t get one this year, I worried. I had…reason to believe she was last in Chicago. I hired investigators, but it took a while to find you.”
“So it was you who found me. Not my grandparents.” I focus on cutting into my chicken. “Are they meeting us at the airport?”
“Your grandparents are in Europe. Your grandmother isn’t well.”
“Ah.”
That might explain why they sent their lawyer instead of coming to Chicago themselves. It doesn’t explain why there’s been no mention of even speaking to them. I’m pretty sure phones work in Europe.
“So what happens now?” I say. “Am I being whisked off to some grand estate to be raised as a proper heiress?”
“No, whisked off to Westdale Academy, to receive the best possible education, for admission to the best possible college.”
I take a bite of chicken. “I’ve already been admitted to college. With a full scholarship.”
“A state college.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“You applied to three top-tier schools. Stanford. Harvard. Yale. I believe my alma mater was your first pick. Stanford for business, yes? An MBA?”
I say nothing, but my stomach flutters.
She continues, “You received early admission offers to all of them. All. But the top-tier ones didn’t come with full scholarships, which you needed. So why did you apply to them?”
I cut a baby carrot in half. “Just dreaming.”
“Well, you don’t need to dream anymore. Stanford is yours. I can accept the offer on your behalf.”
I stop, carrot halfway to my mouth. I’d only applied to those schools to see if I could get in. The thought of actually going to my top pick? And not having to worry about the cost?
I can’t even process that. I’m not sure I dare.
Maybe being the granddaughter of billionaires should have hit harder, but it’s too big.
When I was younger, I thought a billionaire had ten million dollars.
Then I realized it was a thousand million, and my brain couldn’t even conceive of that.
How does anyone have that much money? Why does anyone have that much money?
I don’t want to think about having billionaire grandparents. But going to Stanford? That’s an actual dream, one that has just come true in the most casual way possible.
Well, you don’t need to dream anymore. Stanford is yours.
Cecilia continues, “What you’ll get at Westdale is more than a top-notch education. It’s about making connections. Networking.”
“Not my thing,” I mumble as I quickly eat another carrot.
Her voice drops, softer. “It needs to start being your thing. You also need to spend time with kids like you. Kids who are accustomed to rubbing elbows with heiresses.”
Rich kids, she means. I shiver as I think of the well-off students at some of my better schools. The popular, stuck-up ones who didn’t even see people like me. Imagine a school full of them.
“I’m fine in a regular school,” I say. “I’m already accepted at Stanford, so I don’t need this Westdale place.”
“You do,” she says, her voice still soft. “I’m afraid that’s non-negotiable. But trust me when I say it won’t be as bad as you think.”
“You went there,” I say, remembering what I saw online.
“As did your mom. I actually went because of her. We grew up together—my dad is head counsel for Chamberlain Enterprises, and while I had the grades for Westdale, I didn’t have the family connections.
Your mom got me in, and I loved my time there.
We both did. I know it sounds like some posh boarding school full of snobby brats, but Westdale is… unique.”
“How?”
Her lips quirk. “Do you want the full story or just the parts that concern you?”
“Full story.”
“Okay, then.” She takes a deep breath. “Let’s go back to the late 1800s.
Higher education in the South is pretty much nonexistent.
You won’t even see a public high school until the 1900s.
Southern families who want a good education for their kids send them north.
But there’s also a push for the New South.
Industrialization, education, progressive thought, moving away from the… ” She makes a face.
“The antebellum South.”
“Yep, and the founders of Westdale saw an opportunity. Start a private boarding school at home. A prep school—preparing students for college. Headhunt top teaching talent. Focus on progressive politics. Build something to rival northern prep schools. Which they did. Initially, it was about fifty students over four years of high school, extremely exclusive, only the wealthiest Southern families. As Westdale’s reputation grew, it stopped focusing on the South and expanded to include three feeder schools—outside Atlanta, New York, and Los Angeles.
Westdale itself became only for seniors and only for select students from those feeder schools. ”
I frown. “How does that work?”
“Prospective students attend one of the feeder schools, which are still very exclusive. The best of those are accepted to Westdale for their senior year, making it the most exclusive program in America. To get in, you need the money and connections to be accepted by one of those three feeder schools and then you need to apply to Westdale like you’d apply to college.
Grades first, followed by service work and athletics.
That leaves a maximum of forty kids, all seniors, all valedictorian-level students, like you. ”
“That’s…daunting.”
Her eyes sparkle. “But maybe a little exciting, too? Westdale doesn’t have any silver-spoon kids coasting through life. No spoiled socialites who major in partying. These kids are driven. Ambitious. Top performers, every last one.”
“Is the school business oriented? Are they all from corporate families?”
She shakes her head. “That was one of the early mandates of Westdale—that it would recognize excellence in all areas. The unity of commerce, science, and art.” She catches my look and smiles. “You like that.”
“It’s interesting.”
“That is definitely one word to describe Westdale.”
I think it through, looking for more questions to ask. “So by now, being the start of second term, they’ve all applied to college.”
“A formality really. Anyone who gets into Westdale is guaranteed to get into the college of their choice.”
“Then why go to Westdale?”
“Prestige, but it’s also a reward. Once they’re in, they can relax and enjoy their final year, while making meaningful connections for their careers.”
“Everyone just hangs out and enjoys a top-notch education they no longer need for college?”
“Why not? They’ve worked hard. Now they get to relax and do that very important networking.”
I shake my head. “Students like that don’t relax.” Students like me, I mean, though I don’t say it. “They competed to get in, which means they want something only Westdale can offer.”
A flutter of her hand. “Some of them want to be named Optima, but that’s not important—”
“What’s Optima?”
A long pause. Then, as if reluctantly, she says, “Each year, one student joins an elite group composed of all former winners. It doesn’t concern you.”
“I’m disqualified because I’m enrolling late.”
“No, but you don’t need to run for Optima.”
I bristle. “Because I’m a public school student and not on their level? I couldn’t win, so I shouldn’t run?”
“No, because you don’t need it. You’re a Chamberlain. There’s nothing you’d get from making Optima that you don’t already have. You can just relax and focus on making friends and getting used to your new life.”
With that, she opens her phone. Conversation over. In other words, whatever this “Optima” thing is, she’s not talking about it.
Which means I definitely want to know more.
—
After the flight, a driver conveys us to a hotel.
I’m still unsettled—okay, maybe also a little grumpy—from the Optima conversation.
Being introverted means I can be mistaken for non-competitive, when nothing could be further from the truth.
It doesn’t even matter whether I want the prize; I just like to win.
If there’s a competition at this school for the best of the best, then I will want to prove that I could be that student, that I’m at least a serious contender.
I’ll especially want to prove that I can do it without the privileges—boarding schools, tutors, job-free summers—the others have enjoyed.