Lily
Somehow, I survive Monday, but I stay tired all week—not to mention on my guard, simultaneously dreading and anticipating the next time I’ll see Cross.
We don’t interact for the rest of the week. I see him of course—his stupid double-majoring ass shares many classes with me—but he stays at a distance. Part of me thinks he’ll continue that forever, content to let me squirm, knowing I owe him that kiss, those blowjobs he could demand at any point.
By mid-October, I’m exhausted and cranky.
“I think I love you,” I confess to the beautiful human in front of me.
Not only because she’s gorgeous, with her bright pink hair and the baby-blue eyes, dressed in a slightly punk version of college chic, but because Daisy Morton combines all those attributes with stellar coffee making skills, an out-of-this-world baking talent, and the benevolence of a saint.
She never fails to scan her discount code, regardless of how many extra coffee shots I require.
I’ve seen her scan it for other students, too.
I’m fairly certain the main reason why the faculty hasn’t fired her is because they’re scared her boyfriend will stab them.
Though Dez’s fully capable of stabbing too, if the rumors are true.
“Don’t let Markus hear that,” Dez tells me, beaming. “He has it in his head I’m not marrying him because there’s someone else.”
I blink twice. “Suddenly I feel like my life might be in danger. Do I need to leave the continent?”
She snorts. “Nah, he’s in New York today. You can even have pie without dealing with his drama.”
It’s a well-known fact that Daisy bakes every day, but while the school café on the library’s ground floor does sell pastries, hers aren’t available to buy.
She keeps them here for her boyfriend. Occasionally, and only with some specific people Markus Goltz approves of, she shares.
I didn’t know how lucky I was at the time when she gave me a slice last year.
Since then, I’ve maybe had two, each of them transcendent.
My stomach growls as she cuts up a piece of the prettiest pie I’ve ever seen, with so many meticulously arranged slices of apple in various shades of reds and green. The patchwork is a piece of art. I’d feel guilty for breaking it if a couple of slices hadn’t already been cut.
“I’d propose, but I’m guessing Markus probably has you bugged, and would hunt me down, so I’ll have to love you from afar.”
“Hopefully not too far?” Dez asks. “There’s an open party this weekend on their side of campus. You should come.”
Dez says their side of town, referring to the long drive littered with private houses, like she doesn’t live in the Wyvern House, one of the poshest of them all.
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t know. The last party I went to didn’t end all too well.”
“Oh yeah, you found Charlotte.” She nods in understanding. “That must have been traumatic.”
My mind firmly fixed on Hector Cross’s lips against my clit, it takes me a second to remember.
“Right.” I clear my throat. “Do you have any news about her, by the way? Charlotte.”
“Oh, yeah. She’s next door these days. Much happier. How can I help you?” Dez says with a smile, directing her gaze behind me.
I move to let her serve her customer, taking my caffeine fix and the pie to a nearby table. Part of me is relieved to not have to answer about the party.
I was curious about the legendary legacy bashes, hence why I was more than happy to let Claire take me last week, and it was insane.
Gorgeous space, great music, awesome open bar, with an actual fancy bartender.
He even served us fancy champagne! But I was completely out of my depth, in Cross’s territory. I’m not about to let that happen again.
“Hey!” Claire skips up to me and slides into the free seat, looking positively radiant as always. “Oooh, Dez is serving pie?”
Her platinum curls flying around her face, she’s grown in both confidence and beauty in the short time I’ve known her, which is fucking unfair given how gorgeous she was in the first place. The difference is that she’s no longer sad or stressed.
I dip my head. “Markus is in another state.”
“Good timing. I saw Liv in the hallway and she told me I could find you here. Listen, I have a fair bit of free time because I dropped all the accounting classes. Do you think Rothford Weekly could use an artist? I could use it on my transcript. And you know, it won’t hurt for my scholarship either. ”
I don’t hesitate. “I’m certain Marina will say yes. Our reach can’t possibly be any worse, anyway.”
Claire listened to my story about almost losing my scholarship with wide eyes a few days ago; I’m not surprised she’s come to the same conclusion as Liv and I about joining the club, just in case.
Little as I might like to admit it, the other students at Rothford aren’t just rich. They’re also fucking smart.
Yes, when I first arrived, last year, I labored under that false assumption. I was bitter, a part of me believing that the teachers probably rated the silver spoon dicks higher, brooding over the unfairness of it all until I was paired with him for an econ project.
Hector Cross, hockey player in a letter jacket, a bloody jock. A bad one, at that.
Despite his assurance that he’d been valedictorian in high school and now, I figured I’d have to handle the entire project by myself, that he’d use me, and if he reluctantly participated, he’d have nothing of value to add.
That was my experience of jocks at my old high school, my boyfriend included.
Instead, the dick more than pulled his weight.
He’s a quick thinker, and unwilling to simply get the bare minimum done.
I recognized a fellow star pupil after extra credit.
I reassessed my view of the entire school based on that partnership.
The legacies are indeed relaxed, unbothered, because they don’t have the pressure of having to perform or losing the financing, but there are no slackers in Rothford.
The less academically focused trust fund brats of Thorn Falls are sent to other schools, in LA or San Francisco.
I managed to make it to the top fifteen at the end of last year, but I’ll never forget the shame and fear that day in the advisor’s office, wondering if I’d be asked to pack my bags, or worse yet, still accepted here, but without the financial help I need to attend so far from home.
Joining Rothford Weekly to ensure I’m given a bit of leeway in case I dip below the top thirty again is a small sacrifice. I understand why Claire would do the same.
“How about you come to our next meeting with some sketches? I’m sure Marina will be thrilled.” Unlike the rest of us, our editor actually likes journalism. If the paper ends up being decent, she can use it to show her experience when she looks for a job next year.
“Awesome.” Claire grins. “When and where do we meet?”
“Right here in the library,” I tell her.
“There’s an official private room on the top floor, but it’s small and pretty dark, so we just take a table.
The top floor’s never busy. We just talk about our projects once a week, to divide tasks, and handle the rest remotely.
It’s pretty chill. You can have your own page with a project, or illustrate something else.
We can brainstorm. The next meeting’s tonight, if you’re up for it? ”
“Sure!”
We’re interrupted by Dez popping by our table with a drink and a slice of pie for Claire and a refill for me.
“Oh, you’re the bestest bestie in the world!” Claire coos.
“And I’m what, chopped liver?” I retort, secretly agreeing as I sip my fresh drink. “I’ll come to the counter to pay for the second.”
“No need,” Dez purrs with a wicked grin. “So now you owe me, and you have to come to the party this weekend.”
I groan.
“Come on,” she whines. “You know what it’s like out there. The other girls might be nice to me, but they talk about their collections of designer handbags and the stock market exchange. It’s so much more fun with you guys around.”
Claire tilts her head. “There’s an open party?”
By open, she means open to the likes of me, a non-legacy not shacked up with one of the golden boys—or girls. All their parties are private, invite-only affairs, but most of the time, they’re solely reserved for those living on their side of town. They’re that elitist.
I know it’s not my friends’ fault, and I’m more than happy to stay away from the lot of them in any case, but I remember how outraged I was last year at the ridiculous social divide between the dorms and the private houses. Normal frat houses aren’t that secular.
“Yeah, Saturday night. The sharks are throwing it this time.”
I groan again. “Pass.”
“What?” Dez pouts. “You were half convinced.”
“Maybe. Before I knew it was at the sharks’.” I make a face. “Pretty sure I’m not invited anyway.”
“I just invited you.” Before I can retort, Dez adds, “And you know the gate code. If you weren’t welcome, they’d have changed it.”
I open my mouth, but can’t find a rebuke to that. How does Dez even know? Finally, I said, “Fine, but only if Liv and Jack can tag along.”
I grin, knowing I’ve won.
Dez might convince the sharks to put me and maybe even Liv on the guest list. They like fucking with us too much to deny an opportunity to do so on their turf. But there is no way in hell they’ll let Jack cross the threshold.
I may be a self-proclaimed nerd, but I have nothing on the rail-thin, bespectacled, badly dressed, acne-riddled, caricature of an archetype that is my STEM friend. The jocks don’t even mock him, generally pretending he doesn’t exist.
Poor Jack. He is fun in his own way, and there is no doubt that out of the three of us, he’ll be the one inventing a super cool piece of tech that’ll make him a billionaire before he hits thirty, but in the meantime, he isn’t exactly winning any popularity contests.
“Deal.”
I direct a doubtful look at my friend. “If we’re not all welcome, I’m not staying.”
She beams. “Trust me, that won’t be a problem.”