Page 19 of The Pawn

"Well, the school year just started. I only got a little taste of it during orientation week," she reminds me. "But it's nice to have my finger on the pulse of what's going on around here. And I like getting girls together and fostering friendship. Especially at a school like this, where we weren't evenallowedto attend for over a hundred years. The Rosalinds, along with our upperclass sisters the Lovelaces, have always been about building the social capital of the girls of this school. And it's worked—we have a sexual harassment policy now, and free tampons in the restroom... but I'm rambling." she shoots me an apologetic smile. "You probably think I'm some kind of hoo-rah social discourse enthusiast now."

I surprise myself by smiling back at her—genuinely. "No, not at all. I mean, after I heard what happened to that Martha Hayes girl over at the chapel, all that seems like a better alternative. Although you couldn't pay me to go to an ice cream social."

She laughs, and stops in front of a door with a brass plaque: Room 101. "Here we are. I have to warn you, I cleaned up as much as I could once I found out you'd be staying with me, but it's a little messy. We've only just got your mattress and desk set up, so if you want anything moved around just let me know."

I'm about to respond that I don't really care about those things—I'm here for revenge, not interior design—when she unlocks the door with her ID and opens it wide.

This isn't a dorm room.

It's the master bedroom in a rich girl's house.

Large bay windows that look out onto the rose garden, blue velvet drapes pulled to either side. A wardrobe made of dark mahogany wood in one corner. Two queen sized beds, one made up with a plush comforter and stylish vintage designer cushions, sitting on a large oriental rug. Two desks, one on each wall, made of more solid wood.

And of course, opposite the drapes and next to what must be my bed, an exposed brick fireplace.

Holly's eyes follow my gaze. "Oh, we probably shouldn't use that. It's a relic from before this place got central heat. But it's nice to look at, isn't it? You can put your stuff on the mantle." She glances down at my worn duffel bag and adds, "Once your stuff gets here."

I'm too embarrassed to tell her that all my stuff is already here. This room is magnificent; I don't know what she had in here before my bed showed up. A sitting area, maybe, complete with a tea set and a driftwood coffee table. God knows that it looks like it should be photographed for a style magazine.

To think my cruddy things are going to go on the other side of the room. I don't even have a sheet set—I'll have to use the standard school sheets, which are laid out on the bare mattress, the Coleridge Academy logo facing up. Holly will probably buy a fancy partition just to block out the sad sight of my stuff from her view.

Shaking my moroseness off, I remind myself that I shouldn't give a fuck about Holly Schneider and what she has—or what I don't have. I'm here for the dead, not to covet the things of the living. A snake doesn't care about the richness of a blue blood when it sinks its fangs into their flesh.

"I cleared off half the bookcase for you," she says, motioning to yet another piece of furniture I hadn't noticed, one positioned near the door. "There's room for your textbooks, once you get the chance to pick some up. Though most of our classes here use online sources instead."

"Thanks," I tell her, helplessly wondering when she'll find out from Cole what I did—and how soon the welcome wagon will end. "I don't really have that much stuff, though. If you need the bookcase, you can just use it."

I try to make myself feel ill will towards Holly Schneider, but it's hard. Of all the rich kids here, she's one whose name I've never seen on Silas's social media, harassing him—at least, as far as I know. She could be any of a number of anonymous accounts, despite the bright-eyed, cheery impression she gives off. Despite myself, I hope that she isn't. I want to believe no one can be this kind to my face and so cruel online.

"Thanks for all this." Looking around the room, I worry at my lower lip, trying to keep my awe at bay. "It's a lot to get used to, but I guess this is where I live now."

"It is." Smiling, she bounces over to me and throws an arm over my shoulder. "And Brenna, I hope you'll feel at home."

Chapter 10

Once I drop off my duffel bag on my new bed, Holly wants me to go down to the residence office to get the key card assigned to my ID. Apparently that's another thing that I got left out of. Clutching the ID, which has a photo that makes me look like the most boring, plain Jane girl in existence, I follow her down the hallway.

Along with my photo, name, hall assignment, and a stipend to buy books and food, my Coleridge ID also tracks me when I key myself into the respective building the classes are in. Since I was late—yet again—I was the last to sign up for this semester’s classes. Coleridge has a block schedule, so I’ll be taking four subjects at a time, each for an hour and a half.

And apparently the easy morning classes fill up fast, as well as all the specific arts and languages, so I got stuck with the hardest subject first thing in the morning.

8:00-9:30 Calculus I

9:35-11:05 English Language and Literature

11:10-11:45 Lunch

11:50-1:20 World History

1:50-3:00 Visual Arts

The first three classes are in the Coleridge Center, while the third will be held in the Gladius Outdoor Space. Apparently they convert the outdoor space for different activities; during the school year it holds mostly classes, but the structures get taken down for outdoor sports and performances. Matthew Coleridge didn't make his son's school out to be a haven for sports, so there's no stadium and no broad-shouldered football team to bully all the dorks like out of a '90s teen movie.

"Alright, here we are." Holly stops in front of the Residence Director's Office and beams over at me. "I'm going to take care of a few personal things... unless you need anything else?"

It's clear she'd rather I didn't; she's practically vibrating with the desire to get out of here. Maybe giving all those rah-rah speeches has gotten to her.

Maybe she's going to meet up with her boyfriend, and when she comes back she'll look at me differently, all because I fetched a stupid purse out of a tree for some short rich girl.

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