Page 13 of The Pawn

She nearly does. The one thing I can't help noticing she leaves out of her speech about "academic challenges" and "promising futures" is the teeny, tiny, incidental fact that the net worth of nearly everyone here is so much more than the average that the parents of these students could buy a few small island countries.

Of course, girls like Holly Schneider tell themselves that they're going to be successfuldespiteMommy and Daddy's money, not because of it. It's ridiculous—people don't stumble into owning companies and getting inheritances. Even the most talented ballerina can't make it big if her parents can't afford to get her to the audition.

A low, murmured voice to my right gets my attention. "It's so much bullshit." I glance over at the guy next to me, tearing my eyes away from Holly's shiny pony tail and shinier smile. "No one here is going to become an environmental activist. Not when it would jeopardize the entire net worth of the school's donors to get a single climate change law on the books."

I snort, studying him: brown skin, short black hair, a (very real) faded tattoo peeking out from his shirt, and a clever smirk playing on his face. Like Tanner Connally, he's not wearing regulation Coleridge clothing from head to toe, but unlike Tanner, his choices are the secondhand kind, not designer tennis shoes. Leaning back in his chair, he reaches out his hand for me to shake.

"Hector Sanchez. My dad cleans the toilets here."

"Brenna Cooke, of the not-at-all infamous Cookes from Virginia. I'm guessing we have the scholarship program in common."

Hector snorts. "How could you tell?"

"It was the sarcastic attitude. The only jokes the kids around here tell are about their net worth. They're petty."

"Tell me about it. I once had to pay to replace some European prick's shoes because I threw up on them and he said it ruined the leather. Took me two months over the summer to pay for the damned things, and I don't think he ever wore them again."

"Gross."

"Even grosser? He tried to make me lick them clean. The payment was a compromise."

How disgustingly childish. "You should've thrown the shoes in his face and told him off. That's what I would've done. That, and kicked him in the balls for good measure."

He chuckles and is about to say something else when a music cue starts on stage. Vague and non-specific party music plays over the speakers, and Dean Simmons take the podium again, letting us all know it's time to go to our dorm assignments and get ready for classes tomorrow.

"So that's that." Hector flashes me a smile. "Good luck here, Brenna. You're going to need it."

I frown at him. "What makes you think that?"

"Because I've known these kids for years." We stand up and file slowly out towards the path, the entire crowd milling about in an attempt to form a single file line. "The only thing they hate more than stains on their Balenciaga is an outsider with spirit. They'll find a way to break you." His tone is so casual, despite how ominous the words are. "It's basically the only thing they study besides law and economics."

I frown. "Thanks?"

"It's just the truth." We make it towards the end of the path, and the sun overhead leaves a glint in his green-brown eyes. "If you need an ally around here, I'm in Hadley Hall, room 215. Don't hesitate to knock."

"The dorms are sex segregated," I point out. "They gave us a whole speech about how we'd get kicked out for eventryingto show up in the wrong ones."

Hector laughs. "The rules here don't matter. Not really. Just come around the back at night—it's what all the kids do. That, or find me on social media. You know the name." We've reached the part of the path that splits, one direction going towards the girls' dorms, the other to the boys' side. "See ya, Brenna Cooke. Don't get in trouble too fast."

I watch him walk away, then get jostled and have to turn down my own path. There's a whole stream of girls heading towards the dorms, most with families in tow, wheeling large designer suitcases behind them. I feel far, far behind with my little duffel bag in comparison, but so many of my things were destroyed in the tornado and the flood. What little I have left is mostly borrowed clothes from Aunt Cheryl and the few things of Silas's that I managed to save.

As the crowd of girls moves past me, balayaged hair gleaming in the sun, their skin uncannily unblemished and their clothing perfectly pressed, nausea churns in my gut.

It's one thing to plan anonymous online revenge against the four boys who ruined my brother's life.

It's an entirely different thing to contemplate spending day in, day out, with these polished rich girls. Boys fight dirty, but girls fight to win—and they do it out of sight, where no one can catch them.

The sudden urge to check my makeup hits me. There's ten minutes until the scheduled dorm orientation at Rosalind Hall for freshmen girls—plenty of time to try to make myself look presentable. I make a beeline away from the path and towards Coleridge Center so I can do just that in the girls' bathroom, not wanting to be the only girl with frizzy untamed hair and smudged mascara.

With everything going on around campus, the bathroom is empty. So there's plenty of counter space for my dollar store makeup and knock-off Beauty Blender. Looking in the mirror, I silently judge myself: greenish grey under eye circles, pink cheeks and a pinker nose, thin out-of-fashion eyebrows, chipmunk cheeks, and a stubborn chin.

There's not much I can do with what I've got, but I try my best. My eyes are wide, at least, even though their hazel color is light and washed out. And though I have none of my mother's dainty beauty, I at least got her plush lips. Too bad Coleridge has a rule against bright lipstick colors—doing my lips keeps me from washing out completely.

Last, I spray a bit of style mist in my hair and pat down the flyaways, smoothing it back into a high ponytail.

I'll never look like the other girls of Rosalind Hall, but at least I lookmybest.

Satisfied, I head out of the building and towards the path again. It's empty now—all the other students must have gotten to the dorms by now. I'll be late if I dawdle much more. So I decide to cut through the landscaping instead of staying on the curved path.

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