Page 12 of The Pawn

The snake is meant to work alone.

Chapter 6

"You are, all of you, exceptional."

Dean Simmons is an enthusiastic man, both younger than I expected and probably older than he looks; even the administration here is probably well-off enough to get their wrinkles erased with Botox.

"I can say that confidently," he continues, "because all of you are here, at Coleridge, where we don't just take anyone. You are the cream of the crop, the cherry on the sundae, the..."

Staring off into the distance, I tune him out. It's clear that the point of the speech is to blow smoke up the ass of every rich set of parents here with their kids in the hope of getting more donations out of them. Simmons would make a good cheerleader, I'll give him that, but his speech is about as interesting as a bottom barrel cult leader's.

Looking through the audience around me, I search for familiar faces. As far back as I am, most of what I can see is the back of heads: expensive designer clothing on the mothers, even more expensive hair plugs on the fathers, and of course shiny heads of well-styled hair. Almost all the girls have balayage highlights turning their boring brunette manes into a gradient of color; all the guys have artfully tousled hair that onlylookslike an accident.

I search forhim, but he must be sitting out of sight, because I don't spot his face.

Cole Masterson.

The leader of the Elites.

Instigator of the rumors that started about my brother, took off without context, and ultimately ended with his suicide.

He should be here, but of course he's nowhere near me. The rich don't rub elbows with poor girls from Wayborne. I'm here for scholarship statistics, not to become one of them. They're future investors, CEOs, politicians, and scandals splashed across the front pages of the New York Times. I'm a footnote that won't get written down anywhere that matters.

"This year, we welcome a historic one hundred and fifty-two students to the incoming class of Coleridge, a diverse student body from both coasts, thirty states in between, and four countries overseas." The rich are foreign these days, it turns out. Chinese billionaires and Australian media moguls send their kids to America for a taste of another life—one that includes private schools like Coleridge. "We also have more scholarship students than ever: thirty-three, all of whom are receiving a full ride, free housing, and a food stipend. We expect that they will thrive at Coleridge and have bright futures ahead of them."

A head turns at these words, and the honey brown eyes of one Tanner George Connally look back at me, one thick brow raised, smirk dancing on his lips. The burn in the center of my palm flares to life as I instinctively clench my hand into a fist. He mouths something at me, and it takes me a moment to realize what words his lips are sounding out.

Girl on fire.Or maybegirl of fireorgirl afire,though the last seems unlikely from a dirt bike riding, down and dirty country boy from Kentucky. Probably he's sayingfucking freakand I'm wrong, but I swear he's just given me a new nickname, one to follow up on the heels of Cooked Meat.

He turns back to the front, and I try to refocus on what Dean Simmons is saying. Something about generous endowments, renovations, a new proposed building—all things ultimately aimed at the rich parents in the crowd so they open up their checkbooks every year. This speech was never for the students, especially those of us who aren't paying to be here.

Restless, I cross and uncross my legs, searching the crowd for that elusive face. It itches at me that I've had encounters with three of the Elites, but not Cole. He's the big guy on campus, the son of Joseph Masterson, whose grandfather founded Masters & Sons. They own half of manufacturing in America, including a chain of luxury hotels that stretches from coast to coast.

If you only pay attention to celebrity gossip and reality TV, you probably have no idea about the Masterson family. They're not loud about their money like the nouveau riche. But their fingers are in everything, including shampoo, real estate, dog food, cooking utensils, local TV news stations, auto manufacturing, and of course, dark money in politics.

Tanner Connally's father maybea senator, but Cole Masterson's fatherownssenators. There are bills that will never have his name on them but are covered in his thumbprint, the influence of his political donations felt in everything from environmental regulations to land rights and housing vouchers. If Joseph Masterson wants something, he gets it, no matter how many thousands of people's lives are in the way.

His son is posed to take all that power in just a few decades.

And he's just exactly the kind of boy to turn into a man who will abuse it, maybe even more than his father has, until he owns everything he wants and does anything he wants.

I've tuned out the orientation speech so thoroughly that I jerk when Dean Simmons says, "...and now, your student orientation guide, Holly Schneider!"

A dark-haired girl with an athletic figure and long, lean legs walks up to the stage to cheers from the students in the crowd. Her ponytail sways behind her, shiny and healthy, her makeup understated and classy. The Coleridge insignia is prominent on her button-up shirt and matching polyester blend blazer, tanned skin flashing at the edge of a short pleated skirt.

At the side of the stage, a teenage boy wolf whistles, fingers in his mouth, light blond hair gleaming in the afternoon sun. I see a flash of the side of his face before the audience shifts, blocking him from my view, but just a sliver of his cheek is all I need to see to identify him instantly.

Cole Masterson, the last of my targets, the alpha wolf of the pack.

And standing on stage, clearing her throat into the mic in preparation for her speech, is his girlfriend Holly Schneider, daughter of Editor in Chief Marianna Schneider and CEO Lawrence Schneider of Flare Magazine and Schneider Aerodynamic respectively.

The golden boy and his golden girl, ruling over their whole kingdom. All their Instagram posts are #CoupleGoals, the stuff of modern fairy tale romance. They have more stalkers of their relationship than Justin and Selena.

"Hello everyone, and welcome to Coleridge." Holly's voice is a low, soothing tone, her pronunciation of every word carefully measured. "For nearly two hundred years, this academy has been a beacon of hope to the outliers: young, educated hopefuls hungry for academic challenge. You are all here today because you need something more than the basic, ordinary education offered to you, and Coleridge is here to give you what you need.

"When I look out at you, I see future ballerinas, playwrights, entrepreneurs, environmental activists, visionaries, and so much more than what's to be expected. You are, all of you, going places."

I bite down on my lower lip to keep from saying something snide, shifting in my chair, worrying at the duffel bag in my lap. It feels like she's going to go on forever.

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