5. 2
The assembly hall where Professor O’Donnelly maintains her class is mercifully empty when I arrive. I slide into a seat, dropping the heavy book onto the small pull-out table with a satisfying thud.
As I wait for class to begin, my mind wanders back to the events since I arrived. The pranks, the sabotage, the humiliation. Ironically, this is where it all began for me: my first full day here, when the Legacy boys made it clear what I should expect the moment I was forced to come to this school.
Each memory sharpens my anger, stoking the flames of revenge that smolder within me. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I barely notice as other students begin to file in, their chatter filling the once-quiet room.
I snap back to reality as Professor O’Donnelly strides into the room, heels clicking like a metronome of impending boredom. She’s followed closely by Sylvester, who’s juggling a stack of papers and wearing that usual look of smug assurance—like the world already handed him a trophy just for showing up.
I still can’t believe I ever let myself get caught up enough to hook up with him. A lapse in judgment, temporary insanity—whatever it was, it wasn’t happening again.
“Good morning, class,” Professor O’Donnelly announces, her tone crisp as she sets her materials on the podium. “Today, we’ll be discussing the aftermath of the first Altair Games. Please open your textbooks to page 402.”
As I flip through the pages, I catch Sylvester glancing at me. His confidence has faltered, replaced with something more hesitant. Curiosity? Guilt? A flicker of decency trying to make a comeback?
Seriously, if these Legacies stared any harder, I could start charging tuition.
I lean back in my chair, stretching just enough to tap my pen against the desk. This class was going to be endless; I could feel it.
Sylvester pauses when he reaches my row, his hand hovering a little too long over the stack of papers he’s about to drop in front of me. I keep my eyes fixed on my textbook.
His voice cuts through the air, just loud enough for me to hear. “You’re supposed to pass them on to the next person.”
I don’t even glance up. My response is a soft, noncommittal hum as I turn the page of the book, deliberately ignoring him.
“You know, it’s not that hard,” he hisses quietly.
I bite back a sharp retort, but my back throbs, the dull pain flaring as I shift in my seat. Of course, it’s his fault. He may not have locked the door of the natatorium, but he sure didn’t do anything to stop it. I adjust my posture and, after a beat, I glance up at him, feigning innocence.
“You know,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “my back’s really been bothering me today. I can’t imagine why.”
Sylvester’s eyebrows shoot up, but that cocky grin slides back into place. “Funny,” he whispers, leaning closer. “You didn’t seem to have any issue with your back the other night when I was making you squirm under my hand.”
I force my expression to stay flat, even as my blood simmers. “Yeah, well… chalk it up as a charity event. One-time only. No encores.”
He hovers for a moment, but then, with a small grunt of irritation, he drops the stack in front of me with a little more force than necessary. Whatever.
Professor O’Donnelly’s voice fades into the background as my mind drifts and class stretches on. I’m barely registering her words about the political fallout from the first Altair Games. Instead, my mind is occupied with plotting my next move.
Sylvester is a swimmer. What if there was a little slip-up, a broken routine, something to knock him off balance? I could easily sabotage his gear or make sure he’s distracted before a big race. A few well-timed moves could ruin his rhythm, take away a bit of that confidence.
“The games are more than just a mere competition,” O’Donnelly says. “They hold great importance in our community and have not only impacted the local town, but also shaped the very structure of this university…”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blah blah blah. It didn’t matter to me, since I had already decided not to participate. So why waste my attention on learning about it?
The class drags on, each minute feeling like an eternity. Sylvester chimes in every once in a while, with insightful comments and questions that make Professor O’Donnelly beam with pride. It takes every ounce of self-control not to roll my eyes or scoff audibly.
As the lesson draws to a close, I hear O’Donnelly’s voice calling me to stay behind. I make my way down to the front of the room where Sylvester is busy arranging a pile of our handouts on the stage when she calls his name too.
“You’re getting held up too, huh?” he says, his voice casual, but there’s something in the way he says it, like he’s trying to make actual conversation. Trying to be friendly.
I don’t meet his eyes. “I guess so.”
His grin is sly when he adds, “Guess we’re both in trouble, then.”
I want to tell him to get lost, remind him that he doesn’t intimidate me, but I don’t. I just focus on the front of the room, keeping my expression neutral, knowing I don’t have to engage. He can stand there all he wants—collect dust, start a moss colony, maybe even fossilize if he’s patient enough. As long as his presence doesn’t somehow contribute to my revenge, I really couldn’t care less.
“I’m interested in how your one-on-one tutoring sessions are going,” O’Donnelly says, addressing both of us.
I freeze for a moment, caught off guard by her question. But I quickly regain my composure, my eyes flicking over to Sylvester. He looks just as surprised, though I notice a subtle shift in his posture.
Our first— and only— session together was the one where he’d dragged me out of my dorm room, tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and then unceremoniously left me on that cliffside. Since then, I’ve had no desire to repeat the experience.
“They’re progressing,” I say, my tone steady and assured.
Sylvester chimes in, his voice firm and professional. “Alex is making great strides. She’ll be caught up before you know it.”
Professor O’Donnelly smiles at him with approval, placing a hand on his shoulder. I notice the briefest twitch in Sylvester’s neck as he subtly shifts away from her touch.
“Excellent work, Mr. Oliveri,” she says, her voice full of praise. “As we previously discussed, I would like to join you both on Thursday to see how things are going for myself.”
The realization hits me like a gut punch. This means another session with Sylvester, and now O’Donnelly herself will be watching. I force myself to smile, but it feels as fake as it probably looks.
“I look forward to it,” I say, the words slipping out smoothly despite my growing resentment.
Sylvester nods, but there’s something strained in his expression. “We’ll make sure to be ready, Professor.”
As I walk out of the classroom, I wonder how I’m going to fake my way through a tutoring session with Sylvester. And with Professor O’Donnelly overseeing us, no less. I need to figure a way out of this, fast.
I’m so lost in thought that I don’t notice Sylvester falling into step beside me until he speaks. “We need to talk,” his voice is clipped as he catches up to me.
I don’t even acknowledge him. Instead, I quicken my steps, determined to ignore his presence. But of course, he cuts me off, forcing me to stop.
“I know I’m probably not one of the people you want to talk to right now, but listen to me. We need to get our story straight before Thursday.”
I don’t even look at him, my eyes fixed straight ahead. “There is no ‘we,’ Sylvester. You’re the student teacher, you figure it out.”
His gaze hardens, frustration creeping into his usually confident demeanor. “This affects both of us. If O’Donnelly finds out you’ve been skipping your sessions, I’ll have to deal with the consequences.”
I shake my head, as if brushing him off. “And why would I care about that?”
This wasn’t my problem. It was his.
“Poor Sylvester. Afraid the great and perfect Legacy might get a slap on the wrist. However will you cope?”
Before I can move past him, he grabs my elbow and spins me back to face him. “This isn’t a joke. Do you have any idea what’s at stake here? If O’Donnelly reports this to the Chancellor, it could jeopardize both our positions at Altair.”
I raise an eyebrow, fully uninterested. “You mean how mine already is?” I point out, my tone thick with sarcasm. “Thanks to you,” I finish, bitterness rising in my throat.
I pull the summons from Maxwell out of my pocket and shove it in his face, watching the surprise flicker in his eyes.
Sylvester stares at it for a moment, his face stiffening as he scans the paper.
“Alex, I…” he starts, but falters. I can see him struggling to find the right words. “I didn’t know about this.”
I cross my arms, my expression unyielding. “Well, now you do. And it doesn’t change anything.” I turn away, ready to leave him to clean up his own mess.
Pissed off and fed up, I decide to show up at Chancellor Maxwell’s office after all. I storm inside, ready for whatever argument, advice, or punishment she’s prepared to throw my way.
“Ah, Miss Prescott, right on schedule,” Chancellor Maxwell greets me, her voice too chipper for my mood. I glance at the large clock in the corner. I’m actually on time? Why does that make me so much more annoyed? I couldn’t even be a minute late? “Please, come inside,” Maxwell says, oblivious to my internal rant.
I step into the room and sink into the seat I’ve come to know too well, across from her desk. “Looks like we’re making a habit of this,” I mutter. She cracks a twitch of a smile, which of course only fuels my frustration.
She folds her hands neatly in front of her. “I assure you, this is no joking matter.” Her gaze sharpens, and she pauses, standing so straight it’s as if she might snap if moved. “Your actions last night were completely unacceptable.”
I hold her stare, trying to keep my cool. “Chancellor, I—” I take a breath, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I was tricked. You don’t understand the situation—what happened at the natatorium wasn’t my fault. They set me up.”
Her lips thin to a line. “I don’t want excuses. You’ve been given enough chances, and you’ve squandered them. This kind of behavior will not continue to be tolerated, no matter how my decision at the ceremony could be perceived.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not making excuses! I’m trying to explain that I—”
“You’re not listening,” she cuts me off, her tone ice-cold. “Your actions were reckless, and this behavior will not be ignored.”
She pauses for a moment, her gaze softening ever so slightly, but only for a fraction of a second. “I’ve tried to be lenient with you. I’ve understood that it hasn’t been easy for you here, but I cannot keep allowing your actions to go unchecked if it means others are now suffering because of them.”
I try to steady my breath, but the weight of her words hits harder than I expect. She continues, her voice hardening again, “The students were looking forward to the pool being refilled. The orchestra had made plans to use the space for their rehearsals and extra storage. They were under the impression the work would be completed by the end of the week. However, because of what happened, the contractors will now have to halt everything until the investigation is concluded. They’ll need to verify what caused the damage and assess whether the structural integrity has been compromised—this process could take at least another two weeks, if not more. What was supposed to be a minor delay has now turned into a setback that will affect multiple student groups.
I feel a stab of guilt, but I don’t show it. She’s digging deeper, and I can’t stand it. She’s not done, though.
“Not to mention,” Chancellor Maxwell adds, her gaze hardening, “I’ve noticed you’ve become quite friendly with Miss Gregory. This affects her and her club as well, as the Actor’s Guild will have to continue sharing an overcrowded space with the orchestra students.”
The mention of Aubrey hits me like a brick.
For a split second, I feel my stomach twist. Aubrey . My friend. This isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about her, and I can’t ignore that.
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to argue, to defend myself. It wasn’t my fault the way things went down at the Natatorium. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the damage done, and now Aubrey is tangled up in it.
I stare down at the floor, clenching my fists so tight my nails dig into my palms. There’s nothing I can do to take this back. No quick fix for this kind of mess other than accepting the consequences of what’s been done.
I swallow, keeping my voice even. “I understand, Chancellor. It won’t happen again.” Though I can’t be certain that’s exactly true.
“You’re right,” she replies, her tone as aloof as the look in her eyes. “It won’t. Because as of this moment, you will be losing all phone privileges and any future letters from family members.”
Wait. What?
“Consider this a necessary consequence,” she continues, leaning back in her chair, completely composed. “Perhaps now you’ll learn that your actions here at Altair, have real repercussions.”
I wouldn’t hear Clara’s voice. I wouldn’t get her letters. And for what? Because I was set up yet again? My fingers drifted instinctively to the necklace around my neck—the one Clara made for me. How was she going to manage without me? What would she do if something happened?
I lean forward, my voice coming out sharp and low. “Chancellor, please. I get punishment, but cutting off all contact? That’s going too far.”
“Maybe you should’ve thought about the consequences before damaging university property.”
I lean in further, pushing against the words in my throat. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I was set up—”
“Enough,” Maxwell snaps, cutting me off. “The decision has already been made. There is too much evidence against you.”
I grind my teeth, my knuckles turning white against the arms of the chair. “How long?”
Maxwell looks me dead in the eyes, her voice firm and unwavering. “Until I decide it’s appropriate for you to have that luxury back. And given your history, that might be a while.”
“Is that all, Chancellor?” I ask, my voice tight.
She regards me for a moment, a flicker of sympathy in her gaze before it hardens again. “For now, yes. But consider this your final warning. One more incident like this, and you could be facing expulsion. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal,” I reply, standing up.
As I turn to leave, Chancellor Maxwell’s voice halts me. “Oh, and Miss Prescott? I expect you to report to Groundskeeper Simmon’s office immediately after this meeting. He has some…concerns he’d like to discuss with you.”
I choke down my exhale. “Where?”
Maxwell doesn’t even bother looking up from checking the time on her watch, clearly done with the conversation. She peeks over the top of her glasses, her tone flat. “It’s just north of the art building. I’m sure you’re familiar with it.”
My face burns with a mix of fresh anger and humiliation. The art building. Of course, she had to bring that up. Like I needed another reminder of why I’m stuck in this mess.
I storm out of her office. The walk to the groundskeeper’s office feels like a punishment in itself, each step heavier than the last. My mind spins with what else she’s lined up for me. By the time I reach the small, rundown building, my palms are slick with sweat. Could this morning get any worse?
I raise my hand to knock. “Come in,” a gruff voice calls from inside.
As I enter the room, the air is thick with the scent of dirt and something pungent I can’t quite place. Groundskeeper Simmons sits hunched over his cluttered desk, his gnarled hands rifling through papers. His face is weathered and permanently set in a scowl, as if the years have etched irritation into every wrinkle. When I enter, he doesn’t greet me—just glances up, his eyes narrowing like he’s sizing me up for a fight. And given how my last few days have gone, he wouldn’t be entirely wrong.
“So you’re the one responsible for dying the water in the fountains red?” His voice is gruff, and his gaze doesn’t soften. “Maxwell mentioned you’d be stopping by.”
No. “Yes.”
Simmons leans back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. “Well, well. Looks like we’ve got ourselves a rebel on our hands.”
I bite my tongue, holding back the urge to defend myself. It wouldn’t change anything anyway. I just lost contact with the person I care about most, so what did it even matter?
“You know how long it’s gonna take to clean those fountains?” he asks, his voice gruff. “Days. And that’s not counting the damage you caused to the pumps.”
I remain silent so this can be over that much sooner.
“The Chancellor says you’re to help with the cleanup,” Simmons continues. “I’ll expect you here every day after classes until the job’s done. And believe me, it ain’t gonna be pretty.”
My lungs feel as if they could collapse in on themselves. As if losing contact with Clara wasn’t bad enough, now I’ll be spending my evenings elbow-deep in red-dyed water.
I nod, resigned to my fate. “When do we start?”
“Tomorrow,” Simmons grunts. “Five o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.”
As I turn to leave, he adds, his voice low and gravelly, “And bring clothes you don’t care about. That dye? It’ll stain your skin for days. You’ll be lucky if you get it out at all.”
I force myself to nod again, my teeth clenched so tightly I can feel the ache in my jaw.
As I step out of Simmons’ office, the weight of it all crashes down on me—Clara, the punishment, the humiliation. I was stuck.
Not because I couldn’t leave. I could. I could pack up, vanish.
But I wouldn’t.
Because that’s exactly what they wanted.
The Legacies wanted me gone. They wanted me to snap, to disappear, to prove I never belonged here in the first place. And maybe I didn’t—but I’d be damned if I gave them the satisfaction.
So yeah, I was stuck. Out of spite. Out of pure, petty, white-hot spite.
And I could feel the rage simmering just below the surface, knowing I’d be spending my days covered in dye and my weekends unable to reach the only person who actually mattered.
I hate everything about this stupid school.