Reckless Rules: The Elites Of Weis-Jameson Prep Academy

by Hart, Rebel

  “Don’t say you’re sorry,” Lily says, but her eyes are thousands of miles away. “It’s just...it’s just something he should say on his own time.”

  A blanket of seriousness drapes over us, and I twiddle a warm fry between my fingers. The air is heavy, and even though there are people talking and laughing and enjoying themselves around us, it’s like a switch has been flipped and we’re left alone.

  “So my dad is a stock-broker, right?” She looks for confirmation, and I nod. “Well, apparently there’s this thing called day-trading in the stock market. My dad’s pretty good at it.” She makes a face. “Well, he’s actually super good at it.”

  “That’s nice,” I murmur. “But where are you going with this?”

  “The Jamesons, Whitworths and Blackwaters approached him. They wanted him to day trade some of their companies’ money. You know, the Jameson Automobile Co money. I don’t know how much, but it was a ridiculous amount. My dad refused.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugs. “Part of the reason we left New York when I was younger was to have a slower lifestyle. Dad’s got enough reserves to keep us going. He wants to retire here soon. He just didn’t want to take on such huge clients...and be responsible for their money.”

  “So now they hate him.”

  “Hate is a strong word when it comes to The Elites,” Lily says.

  “What else could it be?” I bite back too harshly. “Sorry, I’m just angry.”

  “It’ll dull over time,” she says, swirling a fry in ketchup. When she pulls it up, the fry sags from the condiment weight. “Trust me, eventually it’ll just feel like a dull ache.”

  “So what happened to you?”

  She goes silent. A dark shadow crosses her face, and she sips her beer. I have yet to touch the beer. Lily’s hazel eyes snap to mine, and the fury in them surprises me.

  “What didn’t they do?” she says bitterly. “It wasn’t like they had any morals or human decency.”

  I stay silent. I don’t feel like this is the time to interrupt.

  “In the beginning, they toyed with my feelings. They brought me into their inner circle, and I was treated like a friend. Vivan and I actually became super close. Or so I thought. And then Emmett turned his attention on me.”

  I watch her quietly, and her fingers start racing up and down the beer glass, wiping away the condensation. She stares at it intensely, like she’s trying to unlock the secrets of the universe.

  “I had a crush on him, big time,” she confesses, and there’s color on her cheeks, spreading down her neck. “Like huge. And he knew it. And...he used it against me in the worst possible way.”

  Thoughts flash through my head, none of them good. Most of them are worse than the last, and Emmett’s cruelly handsome face mixes among them.

  I don’t want to hear what happened. But I do.

  “And so, basically Emmett invites me to the homecoming dance. I’m like, so excited and happy and I can’t believe it. Vivian and I like, even go dress shopping together. And then the night of the dance, everything just...shatters.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  She gives a curt laugh. “What didn’t happen? Emmett and Trey and Vincent start screaming at me. Vivian and Bernadette tear my dress and steal my shoes. Emmett starts kissing Vivian in front of the whole school. When I try and run away, Bernadette grabbed my hair and dragged me to the punch bowl and dunked me in it. But that was only the beginning.”

  “Why didn’t the chaperones do anything?” I’m incensed on her behalf – cruel, heartless monsters don’t deserve shit, and The Elites clearly aren’t human. “Why the fuck did anyone let them do that?”

  “The school is funded and ran by their families. No one has the balls to go against them. They have ways of ostracizing people and running them out of town. Sometimes, overnight.”

  “What the fuck?” I say. “What the actual fuck is wrong with them?”

  “Money does shitty things to shitty people.” Lily leans back, and gives a strained chuckle. “But that wasn’t the end of it.”

  “What else happened?”

  “Vivian and Bernadette started sending me hateful texts. Telling me to go kill myself, to just do the world a favor. Every morning, they’d try and douse me with water or slushies or coffee or whatever they could get their hands on. Emmett started spreading rumors about me being easy, as if that’s why he broke it off with me. And then...”

  “And then what?”

  “Then they planted a joint in my locker second semester of high school. Told a teacher. I was suspended, and thankfully my dad was able to convince them that this was a setup, otherwise I would have been expelled.”

  We fall silent. Lily’s experience – no, torture – hangs between us, a giant reminder of who not to fuck with.

  “They will remind me every so often to stay out of their way,” she says quietly. “They like to, you know, resort to public humiliation or rumors or physical intimidation. Really just what they’re feeling like that day.”

  “That’s fucked up,” I say. Lily’s experience juxtaposes against mine – she’s had four years of constant harassment and bullying, and I’ve only had two whole days. I dread what might come next. “How’d you get through it?”

  “Therapy,” she says. “But I had to go to a therapist in Boston. Anyone else is connected to them, and they would’ve found out. Also, lots of chocolate. I gained a lot of weight my freshman and sophomore years. That certainly didn’t ward them off.”

  My heart hurts. I feel like I’m confined in a box, trapped on all sides, and The Elites just keep pushing and pushing and waiting until I break down. Until I beg to be let out.

  My eyes find Lily’s. She’s pensive, looking at me with concern, wondering how I’ll react. I want to tell her that there must be some way to retaliate against them, some way to get them to stop.

  “That’s hella fucked, Lily,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Yeah, but what are you going to do?” she says. “This town has been built around them. This place is theirs. It has been theirs for centuries, and it’s not like it’s going to change any time soon.”

  Unfortunately, I’m worried Lily is right. I rub the condensation on my glass – is this just what I’ll have to deal with?

  “Okay,” she says, “enough about this. Let’s go have some fun. Chug, girl!”

  I laugh – Lily is a little crazy. Sure, I’ve had my fair share of drinks before, but it’s always been in a controlled setting. At someone’s house, at home – never in public, where we could get in trouble for being minors.

  “How about we just sip and talk?” I ask. “I’m not really feeling up for getting drunk.”

  Lily rolls her eyes, but she smiles at me. “You’ll stop being bummed by them soon. You’ll soon realize that it’s just a stupid fucking game and that it doesn’t matter, even if it hurts all the time.”

  “That’s morbid,” I tell her, taking my first sip of the Pilsner. It goes down nice and easy. I don’t like the taste of beer, but this is tolerable. “I don’t think, you know, that’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay,” she says. “It’s the farthest thing from okay. But what can we do about it? We’ve got one year left, and then we can get the hell out of here.”

  She’s using “we” even though I met her six days ago. But I like that she’s included me in her statement, and I realize that Lily is on her way to becoming a friend. A friend of circumstance and coincidence, perhaps, but a friend nonetheless.

  “Hell yeah,” I say, cheering her. I lift my glass and we clink to celebrate. “One more year.”

  “Less than three-hundred days, actually,” she says. She pulls out her phone.

  “Hey,” I say, eyeing her. “How come you could bring your phone?”

  “This is a burner phone,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows at me. “I just bring it when I go out – nobody except my family and now you know I have it.”

  “What the fuck,” I mutter, mor
e in awe of the fact that she’s had to use a burner phone, and her family most likely put her up to it. “And your family knows all about The Elites and stuff?”

  “Yeah, they do.” She’s busy pulling up an application on her phone. “Luke and I are very close with our parents. Anyway, here, this is what I wanted to show you.”

  I grab her phone and eye the countdown box. It’s surrounded with glitter and fun little animations that look like stringers and confetti. Days Until June 5th: 279.

  “Graduation,” she points at the phone. “That’s when we graduate and we’re done. We just have two-hundred-and-seventy-nine days left.”

  I groan. All I see is two-hundred-and-seventy-nine days of potential pain and torture. But the happiness and glee that Lily has when she sees that number... I don’t have the heart to tell her that none of this is normal. We should be counting down the days happily, in anticipation of our next step in our journey.

  Instead, we’re counting down the days until we escape them.

  * * *

  By the time I get home, it’s almost midnight. Mom and Brendan are sitting in the living room, watching Office reruns. Mom’s holding a glass of red wine in her hand, and when she turns at my arrival it nearly spills over Brendan.

  “Honey!” she says, excited. “You’re home!”

  “Eh, watch it woman!” Brendan says, taking away her glass and gingerly placing it on the side table. “You almost spilled on me!”

  I roll my eyes and walk over to give them a hug from behind. “The Office? Haven’t you guys watched that like seven times through already?”

  Brendan gestures to Mom, who is quietly giggling. “It’s her show! And I just let her do what she wants.”

  “Clearly,” I tease, giving them both a kiss on their cheeks. “Okay, I’m going to bed. Love you.”

  “Love you too,” they chime in, my mother’s a little slurred. She breaks into a fit of laughter at some joke, and it follows me into my bedroom.

  I’m half-naked, only in my running shorts, when my phone rings on top of my bed. I glance at it – Emmett is calling. Just seeing his name pop up gives my heart a little jump. A flicker under my stomach. Why would he be calling? What could he possibly want from me? I press my hand on the green phone icon before I come to my senses. What did I think I was doing?

  I quickly swipe the red phone icon. Ha. Take that you pretentious prick.

  He’s quick. A text pops up: I want you now.

  He probably wants a ton of people, I think to myself. My stomach constricts. He’s probably drunk and horny – Lily did say the Whitworths were having a party today. The urge to text back almost takes over, but then he shatters the lusty build-up in my stomach.

  I guess we’ll see what happens Monday.

  Nope. Not going to give in. Anger starts to build in my chest, eradicating any sort of sick lust I had. My fingers vibrate with frustration and anger, and I want to text him a paragraph that he’ll never forget. But I resist.

  I do what I should’ve done earlier: I delete his contact info. I know it’s a short term solution, but I don’t care.

  As I curl up under the covers, I try and think what will happen on Monday. Lily’s shown me their scope of cruelty is limitless, and it takes me forever to fall asleep.

  7

  Chapter Seven

  School goes by slowly.

  Like, if a snail was drunk and stuck on a glue mouse trap.

  That kind of slow.

  The slow that burns and aches and makes you want to tear out your hair from boredom. The slow that whispers this isn’t supposed to be happening. The slow that is cloaked in tension so thick a circle saw wouldn’t cut through it.

  The slow that said: Ophelia, just you wait.

  I caught Emmett’s eyes two times in the hallway. Once, when I was exiting Calculus. He’d lounged against the lockers across the door, his hair ruffled, his gray eyes piercing. He wore his polo shirt half-untucked, and his collar was half-flipped, and he was making me half want to fix him up and half want to kick him.

  He’d smiled at me, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. I gave him the middle finger, but his musical laugh followed me down the hall. My back broke into a sweat and my body tensed – for what? I didn’t know. To be tackled, to be squished against the wall, to be hauled up against his warm body...but nothing happened, and soon a headache pounded at my temples.

  The other time had been when the bell dismissed us for lunch. The Elites normally join up at the end of the hall and sweep toward the lunchroom together. Like some weird show of power. All walking in a straight row, forcing everyone to move out of the way. I didn’t exit the building to my car fast enough, and I got caught walking toward them on my way out.

  Emmett and Vivian, in another gross display of couply romance, were walking side by side. His arm was slung over her shoulder, and she had her hand looped into the back pocket of his pants. I noticed they didn’t hold hands – perhaps too gushy? Too romantic? Too much softness for them?

  I pressed to the side, like all the other good peasants did, but they’d already noticed me. It was like some attitude had been switched on – one moment they were laughing and joking with each other, the next I was at the full-front of their attention. I felt my skin, hair, outfit be torn apart by Bernadette, whose cutthroat gaze sliced me raw.

  But then, I couldn’t help it.

  Emmett’s face was blank. Clinical. And he studied me like I was some sort of object under a microscope. No hostility, no desire. Just...curious apathy.

  It sent shivers down my spine.

  My headache developed throughout the rest of the day, and by the time I’m at practice the pain is nearly unbearable. I try to stretch out my shoulders and neck, and while it helps, the throbbing comes back in full force.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying not to grimace.

  “You okay, Lopez?” comes Granger’s voice.

  I open my eyes. Coach Granger is looking down at me. The big black watch on his hands shows 3:33 pm. We’re waiting for the assistant to arrive.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to add some pep to my voice. “I’m great.”

  “Come over here, Ophelia,” he says, gesturing me over to the stands. He climbs up to the second row and pats the metal beside him. “Sit, sit.”

  I do as I’m asked, bouncing my toes a little. The pounding matches the beat in my head, and when I look at him, I’m surprised to find deep concern in Coach’s eyes.

  “Look,” Coach starts off with a low voice. He clasps his hands between his knees. He always sports a ball-cap – either Nike or WJ prep – and it hides the graying sides of his head. “I know we haven’t known each other for a long time, but I think we both know that something is going on.”

  I stay silent – what is he talking about? I don’t want to give anything away. If he knows something, he’ll have to be the first one to say it.

  “And I don’t like the looks of my athletes getting hurt,” he says. “It’s not right, and it isn’t good for your performance.”

  “If I’ve been slacking- ”

  He holds up a gnarled hand to stop me. “You haven’t been slacking. You’ve been kicking ass. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the best athlete on this field. My concern is that this whole thing – whoever has hurt you, and whoever is probably giving you that migraine right now-”

  “How do you know I have a-”

  He smiles, his teeth a bit yellowed but straight. “Kid, I know a thing or two about migraines. And looking like you’re going to throw up is one of those things.”

  “I’m hoping it’ll go away during practice.”

  “My point is, kid, is that I want you to know that I’m here for you. I’m your coach. I’m here to support you.”

  I nod, looking at my Nikes, hoping he doesn’t see just how touched I am by his comments. “Thanks, Granger,” I say. “That means a lot.”

  He pauses, almost like he’s waiting for me to say something else, but when I don’t, he slap
s his hands on his thighs. “All righty then, Lopez,” he says. “Time to get on back out there. Short practice today.”

  When Coach Granger says short practice, what he really means is that it’s your own tempo. The faster you can get through it, the faster you can go home.

  * * *

  The moment I see a darkened figure at my car is the moment I realize that Monday has twenty-four hours in it.

  “Ophelia,” Emmett says, his grin spreading as his arms open up wide. He looks sinful, his lips pillowy and his cheekbones high. When he smiles like he means it, it sends a zip to my core. “How was practice?”

  I check around us – my teammates are slowly driving away, their windows down and looking at us. But I don’t see any of the other Elites.

  Emmett is alone.

  Which is unusual.

  And bad.

  For me. Very bad.

  I stop about five feet from him. He’s parked his black car next to mine, on the drivers side. I can’t help but think that’s not a coincidence. Sweat has cooled my skin, and my need to brush away my wayward hairs is stemmed by my desire to not look like I’m primping in front of him. I’m wearing my sports tank that’s a razorback, exposing my collarbones, shoulders and shoulder blades. My shorts are high-thigh and tight, and I know my legs and butt look good in them.

  I wish I’d brought sweats and a sweater. His eyes flick down to my toes, meandering up my body, and settle on my lips. He stares at them a little too long.

  “What do you want, Emmett?” I demand. I don’t want to walk closer to him or to my car, so I stay put. “I’m not in the mood.”

  He unhitches himself from the car, and I contemplate making a break for it. But instead I’m rooted to the concrete, a tiny voice in my ear saying bad move, Ophelia.

  “You know,” he says, “I’ve been trying to think of how to punish you for hanging up on me on Saturday night. And then blocking me.”

  “Oh great,” I say sarcastically, but inwardly a twinge of fear strikes a chord. “You know how I just love to be punished.”