“Miss, uh,” Headmaster Charles snaps his fingers, as if my name is on the tip of his tongue.
“Stringer,” I offer, a polite smile plastered on my face. “Remington Stringer.”
“Ah, yes, Miss Stringer. What can I do for you?” He motions for me to enter, and I take a seat in front of his desk. His luxurious office does nothing to make me feel like I belong here. He has a fucking tea set and little bronze sculptures on his desk and massive bookshelves that put my local library to shame. The deep brown walls are riddled with decorative frames that boast of his achievements. I bite back the urge to make a joke about rich mahogany and leather bound books, because for some reason, I don’t take him as an Anchorman fan.
“As you know, I’m new here,” I begin.
“Yes, I’m aware,” he hedges, steepling his fingers.
“I was sent to the office because I don’t have proper shoes. I don’t have an endless amount of money, or any, really, at my disposal. I’m lucky to even be here. The uniform alone was enough to break my bank, but I made it happen. I don’t know when I’ll be able to afford a new pair.”
I decide to get straight to the point because I know I don’t have the luxury to be tentative and overly polite. I think the man in front of me respects that, or at the very least not appalled by that, because Headmaster Charles’ eyebrows knit together as he steals a glance at said shoes, silently assessing the situation.
“This school and getting into a good college are the most important things in the world to me, sir. And while I promise to get some shiny new Oxfords as soon as I can, I’d hate to think that West Point was the kind of place to kick someone out because they didn’t have the means to buy your fancy shoes. And frankly, I’m not here to put on a fashion show. I’m here to learn.”
Are my shoes really that offensive? Or did Mr. D-bag simply want to teach me a lesson? I want to strangle him. Just thinking about his smug face makes my heart lose its usual tempo and go crazy in my chest.
“Enough with the theatrics, Miss Stringer.” He waves me off. “Get proper shoes when you can and return to classes in the meantime. What’s your second period? I’ll let your teacher know.”
Well, that was easy. Almost too easy.
“Speech and Debate.”
“Ah. Mr. James. I should’ve suspected.”
Mr. James? I didn’t even catch his name before getting kicked out. New record.
My face must show my confusion, because he elaborates.
“He’s stern, if not a little cranky. But he’s an invaluable source of knowledge. As you have probably experienced yourself, he is not the type of person you’d like to debate with. All the same, learn to get by in his class, and you’ll do just fine at West Point, Miss Stringer.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say as I get up from the seat in front of him and turn for the door.
“And Miss Stringer?” Headmaster Charles calls out. I pause at the door and look back.
“Your transcripts were impeccable. West Point can open a lot of doors for you. Don’t waste it.”
“Yes, sir.” I gulp, feeling somehow scolded and complimented at the same time.
“That’ll be all,” he dismisses me and returns his attention to the stack of papers at his desk.
Good riddance, I think. And now for the hard part—softening Mr. James’ cold, cold heart.
The rest of the day is a blur. When I get back to Mr. James’ class, he doesn’t even give me a second glance. Thank you, Baby Jesus. I attend my classes, take notes, and generally lay low, which is exactly what I aimed for when I first got here. I’m kind of relieved to see my second period was a glitch, because, while I appreciate the opportunity to attend this out-of-this-world posh high school, what I really need is a scholarship to a good university. I have no idea what I want to study. I have no clue where I want to be when I grow up. I just know it needs to be out of Nevada. Something that allows me to be completely independent, which means I’m already behind. These kids have had their paths handpicked since diapers—some even before—I’m sure, and I’m just over here hoping I get into college, any college, far away from here.
Lunch is an affair with a The Great Gatsby flare at West Point High. The cafeteria looks more like a glitzy airport with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Nevadan hills, red-bricked walls, and new and shiny tables that look more like diner booths, only from deep oak. This place is free of the slightly annoying yet very depressing scent of cheap, oily, mass-made junk food. The combination of the swanky space and spotless, ironed uniform makes it feel like I’m walking in a parallel universe.
I don’t like it and I don’t feel like taking a place near any of the people I’ve met during my periods, so I grab a tray, get myself some fresh medley vegetables and sautéed chicken breast—wanting to yell at the lunch lady ‘IT’S JUST FREAKING CHICKEN, WHY DON’T YOU CALL IT THAT?’—and take a seat at the far end of the room.
Sitting on the headrest with my feet on the bench, I stare at my lunch and try to calculate my next social move. The general idea is to stay away from trouble and not get into shit that could get me expelled. That means I can play nice with everyone, but I don’t necessarily have to make friends. I simply need to make sure I don’t make any enemies either.
Still staring at my untouched lunch, I feel something hit the side of my thigh and lift my head up. It’s the blond kid who got out of Headmaster Charles’ office, and he just smacked me with his binder. I quirk one eyebrow in question. He kind of looks like everybody else here. Rich and clean and cocky as hell. Now that he is close to me, I can see that his eyes are royal blue and that he has really full lips—too full, maybe—and hair that would make any respectable boy band envious.
“Can I help you?” I ask, not able to completely tamp down my attitude.
“I don’t know.” He tilts his head to the side. “Can you?”
It’s the tilt of his voice that gives it away. Gay. So gay. I’m talking Cam form Modern Family gay. And I can’t really explain it, but suddenly, I feel a lot less guarded.