Page 28 of The Pawn

I choose a desk in the back of the classroom, near an outlet in case I need to plug in for power. The second benefit of being in the last row is that I can observe all the other students. I came here to watch, not be seen, after all.

So when Blake Lee comes into the room, I see him right away. He’s wearing his Coleridge button-up, dark slacks, and a Coleridge blazer, making him the first of the Elites I’ve seen to actually stick to the full uniform. His black hair is pushed back from his face and slightly tousled, and he’s wearing sleek fashionable black-framed glasses that accentuate his best features.

I watch in disbelief as he walks to the desk at the front of the class, grabs a chair, and pulls it up to the edge of the L-shape. He even takes his thin, cutting-edge laptop out of his bag and parks it right there, next to the teacher’s desktop.

Mind flashing back to my class schedule, I pull it out of my laptop bag and spot a little detail under the description of Calculus I that I missed the first time around: “Teacher’s Assistant Mr. Lee.” I didn’t put two and two together before. The TA is Blake himself.

The teacher shows up shortly, a Ms. Saint, and she leads the class. But from time to time she mentions Blake—telling us we should turn our first assignment in to him, that he’ll have office hours, and even that he’ll teach one class in the middle of the semester. Apparently he’s finished all his math credit hours and is doing extra work in order to prepare for college—either a surprising work ethic from the son of a Hollywood star, or yet another sign of how privileged he and his friends are. Somehow I doubt he’ll be applying to the local community college.

Keep my head down, I remind myself that I'm the one here to takehimdown, not the other way around, no matter what Cole Masterson says about "marking" me. He needs to be worried about me.

Easier said than done. If I’m going to really pull this off, I need dirt on him, fast. The tip line has had a few more tidbits sent it way, but none about this school or the Elites—not yet.

Maybe I should make a post encouraging people to submit information about this particular school, claiming there are "rumors" that need to be substantiated. That should get the right people's attention. Blake has been running in Hollywood circles for years—he has to have donesomethingworthy of humiliation or expulsion at some point.

I’m tinkering around on my computer, about to do just that, when the teacher’s voice gets my attention. “Brenna Cooke. I’ve called your name three times, Ms. Cooke. You’re not breaking school rules on social media in class, are you?”

I look up towards the front of the classroom, cheeks burning. I didn’t hear her because I’m so used to answering to the Wilder name; it’ll take time to get used to going by my mother’s maiden name. “Sorry, Ms. Saint. I didn’t hear you.”

The teacher, a pale blonde white woman in her late forties with plump cheeks, ice blue eyes, and commanding height, gives me a scorching look. I can feel the attention of the class on me, and it doesn’t feel good—especially Blake’s disinterested, cold gaze.

“Well Ms. Cooke, pay better attention next time. Students who drift off in class get their screen privileges taken from them and replaced with print textbooks.”

“Of course.” There’s snickering from in front of me, and I swear I hear one of the students murmur the wordredneck. The heat in my face turns to anger as well as embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

“I want you to compute the value of this derivative using the slope formula.” She points to what looks like Greek bullshit to me, with no clear answer. “What is the slope at X?”

I’ve never felt stupider in my life. At Wayborne I was scheduled to enroll in pre-calculus, and I never planned on taking another math class beyond it, because I figured at best I’d get an associate’s degree at the local community college then start a part-time job as a receptionist. Beyond that, my plans basically involved followed Silas wherever he wound up, because I was sure no matter what he did he’d get the whole world’s acclaim.

I was never meant to be the bright, shining star. He was the one who was supposed to come here.

“The value of X...” I turn red at her arched eyebrow. “I mean, the slope at X is... I don’t know?”

More snickers. This time I distinctly hear the wordsbackwater inbred dumbass. Two girls in the second row have their highlighted heads together, the golden blonde of their expensive salon-dyed hair almost identical. Between them they probably spent over a thousand dollars on their hair. Meanwhile, all I’ve got are what God gave me and the cheapest haircut Wayborne can provide.

The sooner I fix how I look, the better. Especially if using spoiled Georgia Johnson's credit card gets her in trouble with her parents. She's here too, twirling her red hair around one finger, laughing quietly into her palm.

I can’t help looking over at Blake’s face. A subtle, cruel smirk is playing on his mouth. The smirk vanishes when the teacher looks back at him. “Mr. Lee, perhaps you can tell Brenna what the answer is.”

“The slope of the curve at the point is 4. That’s found, of course,” his voice takes on what sounds like a patient, gentle tone, but is no doubt condescension, “by finding the first derivative, then inserting that value into the equation. It’s really quite simple.” He smiles a little. “I can always explain it to you in detail during my office hours.”

He’s looking down on me.

It makes my face burn, my hands curl towards my palms.

I hate myself for caring what he thinks.

Ms. Saint asks, “Brenna, are you well-versed in pre-calculus and advanced geometry material?”

I tear myself away from Blake’s hateful brown eyes, shame spreading warmth in my belly. It would be useless to lie now. “Not as well as I thought, I guess.”

“Well, at least you can admit the truth.” Ms. Saint doesn’t look impressed by my truthful ignorance, though. “I suggest you study—and study hard—this weekend, Ms. Cooke. Incomers to Coleridge are expected to be ahead of the pack.”

“Yes ma’am.” I wince at the country twang that leaves the tip of my tongue, a bit of the backwoods dragged with me all the way to Connecticut.

It’s a relief when the teacher moves on to other subjects and new victims. I click out on the tab on my browser open to the Legacies blog, certain now it’s not worth it to try to do both in class. If I’m not careful, Calculus I alone could be my downfall, getting my ill-gotten scholarship revoked before I even complete the semester—or take down a single one of my targets.

About halfway through the class, I feel a distinct pair of eyes on me again.

---