Chapter Four
I letHarper lead the way through the hall, down the elevator, and back outside, silently hoping that she has a better idea of where we’re going than I do. From the confident way she strides towards the green, I’m probably in luck.
“I haven’t been to the SU yet, because, like, the crowds were so bad—you were smart for getting here late; you probably missed the worst of them. It was a literal sardine can. Some people came with their parents, which I thought was pretty weird, because they looked like normal people, but you just know they’re all richer than God. I mean, my mom’s not, but it’s all about who you marry, right?”
From the way she pauses, she actually wants an answer. I give a thin shrug and focus on putting one foot in front of the other, my boots crushing a path into the dewy grass. I don’t know how to tell her that marriage doesn’t work the way for me that it does for normal people. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”
“Cash and status are the only things it’s good for, I reckon. I mean, all that love bullshit? Forget about it.. Sounds exhausting, if you ask me.”
That I can most definitely agree with.
“Look—that’s it,” Harper says, nudging against my shoulder. I try and fail to keep from flinching, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “So cool. Have you heard the rumors? About the old creep who used to own this place and everything?”
I follow her gaze to the wide set of stone steps descending before us. They lead down into the ground, a solid story at least, with a pair of broad glass doors at their terminus. Bold red letters stretch across the gleaming panes. CEU.
“The… who?”
“Come on, you’ve gotta know the stories!”
When I only shrug, she laughs in delighted disbelief.
“There was, like, an old murderer who used to live in the castle. Think Count Dracula. I mean, he wasn’t a vampire—well, assuming they don’t exist, because if they do, he probably was—but he’d, like, kill people who gave him trouble or who refused to pay their debts to him. And supposedly this—” She pointed a neat, pink-manicured nail towards the doors. “Was the place where he hid away when he was put under siege. Vengeful townsfolk, you know? But they totally got in and killed his ass. And when they converted the place into a school, they decided that’d be the perfect spot for a student union. Crazy underground murder dungeon. Don’t you just love it?”
“It… certainly wets the appetite?”
She shakes her head, grinning. “You’re funny. For real, though, I’m starving. You reckon they serve Chinese?”
Her question is answered as soon as we step through the doors. A wide atrium packed full of students stretches before us, scattered with small tables and circular booths, with at least a dozen glass-and-chrome food stations arranged around its perimeter. There’s Chinese, all right—and also Indian, Greek, Mexican, Italian… if I’m not mistaken, the uniformed chef behind one counter is even searing steaks.
Harper raises her voice over the din of sizzling food and chattering diners. “Oh my God, I think I’m in heaven.”
“It’s a lot.” Eager as I am to get something in my stomach, the vast array of choices is almost paralyzing.
“I’m going to get, like, a dozen egg rolls. They make killer midnight snacks, you know. C’mon—or do you want something else?”
A sudden clap of laughter bursts forth from a nearby table full of older boys. This time, I manage to avoid jumping. Barely.
“Um, I’m good with whatever.”
“Great. Let’s stick together, then—if I lost track of you in this place, I don’t know if I’d be able to find you again.”
With that, she locks her hand around my wrist and tugs me towards the direction of the far left station, where yet another red banner proclaims to be the WOK. My head swivels of its own accord as we press through the crowd, a myriad of different details all vying for my attention—giggling girls, rowdy sports players, the occasional lone wolf with their nose buried in a book. I’ve never seen so many people in one place before. And the phones—dozens if not hundreds of little screens littering the room like blue-tinted fireflies, each one relaying its own stream of information to the student hunched over it. Mine is still in my pocketbook, which I left hanging over the back of my desk chair. I guess I ought to start carrying it around with me if I want to fit in.
“What’s your number, by the way?” Harper asks.
Case in point.
“I’m not sure.”
She wrinkles her nose, but the glint in her eyes conveys amusement more so than disdain. “You don’t know your own phone number?”
“I just got it. The phone, I mean. So I don’t have it memorized yet.”
That seems to appease her, thankfully. “Oh, sure, I get that. Insta, then?”
“Come again?”
“Your Instagram.” She waves her own phone, an ultra-slim gadget in a glittery pink jewel case. “So that I can follow you.”
“I don’t… think I have that.”
“You don’t have Insta?” She watches me almost warily, perhaps waiting for a punchline that I can’t deliver.
“Sorry.” Hopefully that’s not a massive faux pas.
“No, I mean, you’re fine. But, like, are you still on Facebook? Isn’t that for old people? Not that there’s anything wrong with—but like, Twitter? Snap? Tiktok? Anything?”
I can’t tell whether she’s making up words to mess with me. “I just don’t really do online stuff, honestly.”
“Oh. My. God. Girl, how are you even alive?”
I wonder how she’d react if I told her that a lot of people probably wish I wasn’t.
Not that I’m going to do anything like that.
“I’ve always just kept to myself, I guess. I was homeschooled, so I kind of… missed out on a bunch of social stuff.”
Harper’s dusty green eyes pop into perfect circles. “You got into Crimson Elite and you were homeschooled? Like, no offense, of course—that’s actually crazy impressive. I have so many questions…”
The student in front of her steps out of line, a steaming tray of rice and chicken in hand.
“Next!” the cook calls.
“…But I’ll save those for when we have food.” She swings around. “Hi, I’ll have a helping of the General Tso’s, and, uh… how many egg rolls can you give me? Like, legally?”
She speaks so easily. She does everything so easily, never seeming to second-guess her actions, and I can’t help feeling a bit amazed by it. I hope I’ll be able to reach that level someday. Maybe she can help me get there.
“Next!”
In the meantime… I’ll just have to do my best.
“Hi,” I say, stepping up to the brushed metal counter. The aproned cook on the other side, a surprisingly young woman with short-cropped black hair and cheekbones to die for, regards me expectantly. “I’d like a portion of peking duck?”
“Duck’s not on today’s menu rotation.”
Menu rotation?
“Oh, okay—I’ll just have the same as my friend, then.” I gesture to Harper, whose tray of food looks like it weighs more than she does. “But without the egg rolls.”
The cook nods and busies herself behind the counter. Through its glass front, I can see her grabbing a tray, setting a plate atop it, and piling the plate with generous ladles of white rice, broccoli, and saucy, crispy chicken.
“Anything else I can get for you, miss?”
Not unless you happen to be serving a dose of social aptitude. “No, thank you.”
“Enjoy. Next!”
The smell hits me as she passes the tray into my hands. Sweet moreso than spicy, to my surprise. I’ll just have to hope Harper has good taste, because I’ve never heard of this dish in my life.
I follow the beacon of her dark blonde hair across the sprawling atrium. As far as I can tell, just about every seat is full. Is it always this crowded? I can’t imagine trying to navigate this maelstrom while lugging an armful of textbooks.
“Here we go!” Harper trills, nodding towards a small and thankfully vacant corner booth. “Perfect for the two of us!” She slides in on one side, bouncing a little bit against the red cushion. “I’m actually so excited for this, it’s kind of ridiculous.”
I set my tray on the wooden table and take the seat opposite her. Both a fork and chopsticks are provided, and I naturally opt for the latter, capturing a piece of chicken and bringing it to my mouth with only the slightest hesitation.
Oh. Wow.
The flavor is far bolder than I’d expected. Simple, yes, and saltier than anything my father’s staff would think to serve me—but maybe that’s a good thing. The crunch between my teeth is nearly as addictive as the sweet-spicy tang of the sauce, and I’m reaching for another bite even before I’ve finished the first.
“You’re super good with those,” Harper says.
I swallow. “Pardon?”
“The chopsticks.” She waves her own chicken-skewered fork in my direction. “I totally suck at using them. Especially for rice, which is kind of ironic, don’t you think?” She shrugs and stuffs the bite in her mouth, not seeming to care about the dribble of sauce that finds its way to her chin. Something about her unabashed messiness charms me. In my experience, eating is more of a performance than a pleasure—small portions and smaller bites, to be handled with the most delicate of hands.
But food like this practically demands enthusiasm. It’s just that delicious.
Maybe I’m glad they aren’t serving duck today after all.
Harper comes up for air after a few more mouthfuls and sets her palms on the table, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Okay. So. Socials—we gotta get you set up with those. If you pass your phone over, I can get you started.”
“Oh—” I reach up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, avoiding her eyes. “I actually left it back at the tower.”
“Holy shit. Okay, look at you go. Total child of nature. I admire the hell out of that. Even if it could never be me.” She sits back. “We’ll table that for now, then. What else? Tell me about yourself. Hobbies, major, boyfriend, girlfriend…?”
“Well, I’ve never really dated.”
“No way. You’re shitting me.”
I shake my head.
“But you’re so pretty! And so cute—like, a little awkward, but I kind of love it? No offense.”
“None taken.”
“I mean, I would date you. If I swung that way. Which I don’t, to be clear.”
“I don’t either, I think.” I’ve never given it any thought. I’ve always tried to avoid thinking about those things—love, sex, relationships—in general. I know what kind of person I am. I know how dangerous that world can be for girls like me. It’s just not worth it.
There are some nights, though…
“Okay, well, no boyfriend drama, that’s okay. We can fix that. What about your classes? I know you’ve got those to talk about, considering the circumstances.”
“I don’t have my schedule on me,” I admit, “but I signed up for Ancient Greek, Intro Lit, um… a philosophy seminar with a long name that I can’t remember?—”
“Aesthetic Endurance: Art’s Commodification and Transformation in Early Modern Europe,” Harper recites instantly.
“That’s it. I guess we have that together?”
“Hell yeah, we do. Apparently that professor, um, what’s her name, Winters or Winston or something—she’s been working here for, like, generations. She’s written a bunch of books and stuff too. Isn’t that crazy?”
“That’s amazing,” I admit—but Harper doesn’t need to know just how amazing that is. How important to me in particular. If this woman has really been teaching for generations, she might have known my mother. And if she knew my mother, maybe she even knew about?—
“Okay, so that’s three classes. What’s your fourth?”
A smile brushes my lips. “Intermediate Dance.”
“Oh, wow.” Harper nods vigorously. “That’s incredible. I’ve heard that the dance courses here are super challenging.”
“You’ve heard a lot of things, apparently.”
She shrugs. “That’s kind of my superpower. I’m, like, an information sponge. All the gossip gets back to me one way or another, even before I’ve made friends. Not that I haven’t made friends here. I mean, I’ve made one friend. That’s you. Obviously. But once I wiggle my way into one of the sororities, it’s all over.”
Right. Sororities. I keep forgetting those are a thing. I don’t quite understand what they entail, but the concept of sisterhood is a welcoming one.
“See—don’t stare, but over there, by the steak station? Those girls are Omega Phi. Omega Fine. The elite of the elite. Crazy competitive to get in—which is why I’m going to do just that.”
I follow the slant of her eyes towards a large, round table on the other side of the cafeteria. Seven or eight girls are seated there, laughing over their dishes—all of them are almost offensively pretty.
“That tall blonde girl is the VP,” Harper explains. “Marissa something, I think. She manages their social media.”
Wait—I know her. She’s the one from the registration table. My stomach jerks—if the way she talked to me was any indication, I’m not sure that she’s the kind of person I’d like to hang around.
“Huh.” I fidget with my napkin. “That’s cool, I guess.”
“Cool? It’s incredible. They’re practically princesses. Their house is a mansion—and they’re just about the only people who can get away with dating the GODs.”
Did I hear that right? “Sorry—dating the gods?”
“Gamma Omega Delta. Don’t get me started.” She cups her chin in her hands, eyes growing dreamy. “Stunners, every last one of them. Oh shit, look—there’s one right now, by the OPs. She must be with him.”
She—the blonde girl—has her fingers hooked around the wrist of a guy passing by. She tugs him closer to the table, lips framing something insistent. His back is turned to me, obscuring his reaction—but there’s no mistaking those tattooed arms. It’s him. The jerk who shoved past me earlier. How fitting—of course the two people who were the rudest to me are a couple.
Or maybe they aren’t. He’s resisting her, trying to step away—she pouts, but that doesn’t stop him from jerking his arm free of her grip and turning on his heel.
Oh.
It’s him.