by Henry, Max
“Who the fuck rides a horse to school?” Colt chokes out.
“Tuck Brallant does,” I whisper, my cheeks flaring red-hot when the boy in question turns his head to look down into the SUV.
He doesn’t smile. In fact, he seems as though he considers whether he should continue or stop to talk to us. The vicious heat in his gaze tells me the latter would not be a good situation. With a jerk of the reins, he steers the massive animal right and heads down a cobblestone pathway.
“Heaven’s sake,” Colt grumbles. “Next thing you know it’ll be bring a pet to school day with a parade of sheep and chickens.”
I chuckle, head turned to watch the fading outline of Tuck as we move out onto the street. “I don’t think so.”
“Around here, sis, it appears anything is possible.”
There's a distinct smell about the country. I can't place what it is exactly as an autumn breeze drifts across the semi-enclosed courtyard. Maybe the undertones of the pine trees that border the school farm at the rear of the campus, or perhaps it's the distinct lack of anything toxic to sully the air around us.
No exhaust fumes. No food notes drifting from the cafe district three blocks over. Not a factory in sight.
Minimal human interference.
My hand twitches inside Colt's, his grip as firm as a vice around mine. At least I have him. I have one person on my side, and if I only ever have one, then that's enough for me.
"I feel as though we're lambs, lost amongst the lions," I muse.
My hair feathers across my face; the morning sun highlights rich golden tones I inherited from my mother. Students eye us warily as they move around the grounds.
"We're the lions, Lacey," he grumbles, eyes hard as he surveys our competition.
At least, that's how he views them. I get it; we stand out. But there's no reason why we can't make new friends, is there?
"Get lost on your way to the city?" a dark-haired boy spits as he walks by.
Maybe there is a reason.
I glance down at my new uniform. Thankfully the required blazer tops off what would otherwise be a particularly mundane outfit. A fascinating deep charcoal with the crest embroidered on the left breast, the number of stripes on the elbows indicate what year you are.
Remove the blazer, and we're all the same.
At least, at the moment we are. After today… well, we’ll see how the chips fall, shall we?
I let go of Colt's hand and swing my satchel around to my front. He folds his arms high on his chest, eyeballing the boy who threw shade our way. Me? I've already forgotten about the altercation, more interested in finding my schedule so that I know where I need to be for homeroom.
"Lacey and Colt?"
I snap my head left and spot a tall woman with a perfect chignon striding from the direction of the main office. She wears the same outfit as the students, all bar the blazer, which is a pale green for the faculty. The women’s style cinches around the waist, which adds a pleasing feminine edge to what would otherwise be a slightly tomboy outfit.
I still feel like a fish out of water without my pleated skirts and blouses, ribbons in the hair, and school-issued Mary-Jane's.
"Hi." She extends her arm as she approaches. "I'm your Dean, Farrah Michaels."
"Lovely to meet you, Ms Michaels." Colt takes her hand in his, giving it a firm pump before letting go.
He's every ounce our father at that moment: proper and professional.
"Hello." I opt not to shake hands—such a manly thing to do—and offer a polite smile instead.
"Welcome to Arcadia High. The ladies at the office said you just checked in." She smiles, hands clasped before her. "I'm so excited to have you both here. You'll make a change from our usual enrolments, that's for sure."
I note that her nails are short and void of any polish. Her makeup is minimal yet striking. Then again, she has a natural beauty about her that I'm slightly envious of.
"I hope you aren't extending us special privileges," Colt teases with a sweep of his hand toward the students that watch our interaction with cool curiosity.
To a stranger, his comment is a jest. Yet, for me, I recognise the cold click to his words that indicate he's mad at the attention we receive. What did my brother expect, though? Two rich kids—well, what were rich kids—who moved to this rural town from the city?
We're as rare as Moby Dick out here, and considering the once-over the girls give me, possibly as hunted.
"Of course," Ms Michaels gushes, although I feel her response isn't all that truthful. "Every new student is welcomed with open arms." She spots the schedule in my hand. "Can I help you find your way around?"
"It's okay, thank you." I glance down at the tri-fold brochure. "I marked out my classes on the map last night."
"Fantastic." She seems genuinely impressed. Isn't that what anybody would do? "Let me at least walk you to homeroom," she offers, eyeing each of us in turn. "I can point out some of Arcadia's historic features."
"That would be lovely."
"I'll give the offer a pass, thank you," Colt responds at the same time as I do.
He tightens his grip on the satchel strap slung over his shoulder and takes his exit, letting his long legs carry him across the courtyard in confident steps. I shift my gaze back to the slightly taken aback Ms Michaels, and smile.
"I'd love that, thank you."
She grins, gesturing with a sweep of her arm which direction we should go. "Shall we, then?"
I duck my head in acquiescence, hugging my satchel to myself as I fall into step beside her. The eyes that track us as we enter the courtyard don’t escape my notice. I daren’t glance up, though, to find if they’re friendly or otherwise. Given the silence as Ms Michaels and I pass by, my common sense leans toward the student body’s interest as being hostile over welcoming.
"The Literature suite is in the building to your right." She pauses to greet a second-year boy, allowing me time to take in the impressive structure—two floors of beautiful masonry with ornate arched window frames capped by incredible keystone sculptures. Astonishing care has been taken in the roofline, decorated with a cornice over rolled corbels, which are covered in moss adding to the magic of the grounds.
"Where were we?" Ms Michaels smiles, hand softly seated between my shoulders. "Yes. Literature to our right and Math and Technologies are on our left there."
I make a mental note that the technology suite is housed in the only one of these incredible buildings not crawling with lush green ivy.
"On the far side of them is Arts.” She leads us toward the far side of the courtyard. “Down and to your left here, you will find the cafeteria," Ms Michaels indicates as we reach the end. "They're open from half an hour before the first bell to half an hour before the final."
I glance down the arched walkway, fascinated by how established the grounds are. Colt and I assumed we'd find basic transportable classrooms when Mum first told us the location of our new school. I promptly googled the place and discovered that Arcadia High has a rich history as one of the first rural-centric schools in the country, and the buildings are all in quintessential settlement style as found in Otago; beautiful contrasting stone laid with incredible craftsmanship to pay homage to the country's European settlers.
"Sciences are right here between the archways," she instructs, pointing to the building on our right, between Literature and Technology, "and this is where you'll find your homeroom." She guides me through an iron-pinned timber door into what I can only describe as heaven.
That is if you took out the swathe of students who eyeball the new girl as she walks in.
"Mr Creighton," Ms Michaels calls the length of the impressive room, "this is your new student, Lacey Williams."
I swear one of the girls groan.
"Find a seat, and settle yourself in. I hope your first day is fantastic." She leans down as Mr Creighton rounds his desk at the head of the long room. "Any issues, you can find me in the administration building."
High benches line the class, the type you'd expect in a science room. On the outer side are leather upholstered stools, spaced evenly every half metre or so. Tall stained-glass windows along the left cast a breathtaking array of colours over the room, the morning sun streaming in from across the fields behind. It's the only beauty in an otherwise ugly situation.
Students talk behind their hands, hushed whispers that no doubt pass judgment on a girl they don't know. With my satchel still tight to my chest, I make my way down the right-hand side to a spare seat. The dark-haired girl to the left smacks her palm down on the leather padding, adding with a scowl, "Taken."
Pathetic.
I try the next available stool. The boy to the right attempts to do the same, yet by this stage, Mr Creighton has made his way down the centre, marching along the timber panel floor until he's right before us.
"Mr Jones, you will let our new student take that vacant seat, or you will find your privileges revoked for the remainder of the week."
I appreciate what he does, I really do, but by using me as a pawn against boy Jones' behaviour, Mr Creighton has also inadvertently made me a target for blame. If I’m to establish myself in this school, I need to start with the upper hand. Faculty standing up for me is a definite show of weakness.
With a huff, the boy folds his arms on the table before him, right as the bell chimes for the start of homeroom. And no, I don't mean a tinny electronic bell. I mean an actual, pealing bell that is housed in the tower over the main hall.
I glance at Jones in my periphery as I take my place on the stool, wondering how somebody can be so mad at me when I don't know them from a bar of soap? Settling my satchel at my feet, I tuck it behind the heels of my boots and against the legs of the stool.
Mr Creighton resumes his spot at the head of the class; hands clasped before him where he stands in front of his carved timber desk. "Shall we begin?"
Day one has officially left the start line.
May the best man or woman win.
"Colt!" I jog to catch up with him between first and second period.
He turns, glancing over his shoulder at me before slowing so I can catch up. "Hello, little sister."
"How was your first class?" I had English, thankfully not far from where homeroom is. Colt had Statistics.
"Dire," he drawls before regarding me with a pinched gaze. "Did you know that some of the students remove their boots at the door before they step in the classroom?"
I chuckle as we walk again. "No. Why?"
"They're filthy," he leers as though the word alone leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth. "Covered in mud. I mean, Lacey, it's the first class of the day. What on earth could warrant them being so unkempt that early in the morning?"
He's so stately, my brother, yet not in a good way. A solid education in a preparatory school from the age of seven (yes, our mother chose to get a head start on us) has left him with an unfortunate view of the world. With his shock of dirty blonde hair that sits to the right of his eyes and his sharp jaw, he cuts the perfect vision of upper-class resplendence. Yet, the second Colt opens his mouth the taxes of our training are evident.
Girls exist to please, to plan the parties, and to serve.
The boys, however, are trained to be ruthless. Men like their fathers. Without conscience and a scrap of morals so that they don't question the things they have to do to reach the lofty heights our surnames demand.
The boys all aspire to be like Richard. Arse.
"I guess we'll find out before long," I muse in reply to his discord at the boots. "For all I know, we may also do the same after a week at Arcadia."
"Hardly," he mumbles. "Anyway, this is me." He jerks his head in the direction of the Science rooms. "What's on your schedule?"
"Farm Management." I frown. What on earth I'll learn there, I don't know. Unless the farm has a retail precinct, I'm not interested in managing anything about it.
Colt laughs, reaching out as he does to run his fingertips dotingly under my jaw. "My little Lacey. Out in a field telling the animals what to do."
I swat his hand away. "I highly doubt that's what is involved, Colt."
"Scoot," he teases. "You'll be late."
I shake my head as my brother enters the building, doubling back the way we came toward the Technical block. According to my map, it's down the rear of the campus, past the sports grounds. I hasten my stride, not wanting to show up late to a class on my first day no matter how far across the school I have to trek to get to it.
Punctuality is the cornerstone of a commanding presence.
The sun rises higher in the sky, the vast blue expanse void of any cloud. I shield my eyes with one hand and turn the corner of the Science building to head through the stone archway that drips with fragrant jasmine.
"Watch where you're going, Gucci."
My feet grind to a halt. "Pardon?" I drop my hand and lift my chin to find a tall and somewhat athletic girl twirling the ends of her honeyed-streaked golden-brown hair.
"You nearly walked right into me."
"I didn't realise." I move to continue on my path, the bell due to peal any minute now.
She snags me by the strap of my satchel, painfully catching a few strands of my hair in the process. "Hold up. Aren't you going to apologise?"
"Sorry," I snap, pointedly glancing to her hand.
She lets go with a flick of her wrist as the same petite white-blonde girl from the gates this morning emerges from behind the sculpted hedge. She stinks of cigarette smoke.
"Who's this?" I note that the blonde girl has shifted her school-issued scarf to act as a headband. It barely contains her wild and untamed locks.
"The rich city bitch," the brunette answers.
Nothing good will happen here. "I need to go." I smile and spin before walking as fast as I can toward the fields.
I have to learn about these girls before I can strike. Colt and I are on their home ground now. We can’t rely on those around us anymore, or our names to carry the weight it used to. The first day is for observation. Nothing more. No matter how mad they may make me.
"Nice to meet you, Gucci."
I have no idea which one of them snarled that, yet I'm not about to turn around and find out. I arrive at my next class with my heart beating painfully hard, and a growing frustration in the pit of my gut. I spent the past three years getting where I was at Riverbourne. Starting again was never in my five-year plan. I guess I was naïve to assume I’d never lose what I had worked hard to earn.
The hum of chatter drifts from within the timber-clad class as I climb the steps and hesitate.
There's barely a discernible path to the door thanks to the piles of dirty boots kicked off haphazardly. I glance down at my Gucci ankle boots... and sigh. No wonder. The nickname makes so much sense now. They're last season, and not only that, cost a mere $1,200 new so I thought they'd be the best to wear in case the finish was damaged. But all around me lay brands I don't recognise. Some practical styles such as Jodhpur boots, some a little more of a crossover in a true cowboy—or cowgirl as it may be—style.
I do myself no favours—that's clear.
The bell tolls its first note, reminding me that I should be inside the classroom, not outside surveying the footwear on show. With a deep and bracing breath, I lift my manicured hand, frown at my bright pink polish, and then push inside.
I may be different, but that's no reason for these people to ostracise me. Let them get the first-day fun out of their system, and surely they'll recognise what sets me apart is what makes me superior too.
"Shit, Tuck. We forgot the red carpet! Hollywood has arrived."
Maybe I'll give them two days.
After dinner, I learn from Colt who the boy who crassly greeted me in the Farm Management class is: Johnson Davis. Also known as the self-proclaimed leader of the third
-year boys.
His parents own a cattle station that borders the town; over forty-three thousand hectares of rolling hills and sharp mountainside. School must be no more than a game for him. All he’d need to know to step into his father’s role as runholder, he could learn by staying right there, at home.
“How did you discover all of this anyway?” I stand before my closet, frowning at my extensive collection of shoes.
Day one didn’t go quite as planned. I need to blend more before I assert my dominance. I have a pair of boots for nearly every day of the year, yet nothing like what the other students wear. Maybe if I sell a few on eBay? I wouldn’t dream of asking Dad for new boots. Not this week.
“By doing what I do best,” Colt drawls. “I observed, isolated the weak point, and I exploited it.”
“In other words, you found the kid everyone else picks on.”
He snaps his fingers at me as I let out a huff, hands on my hips. “Exactly.”
“I have nothing suitable, you know.”
“Suitable for what?” Colt rolls to his back on my bed, appearing to look around for something to fidget with.
He selects my diary.
I snatch it out of his hands and then toss it to the top shelf of my closet. “Suitable for a rural high school.” Defeated, I flop down on the edge beside him. “This is a world away from what we’re used to.”
“Don’t remind me.” He rolls his eyes with dramatic flair. “I’m counting down the days until Dad’s lawyer finds a loophole in that damn case and sues for recompense.”
“I don’t think he will,” I say softly. “If there were any legal technicalities, then they would have presented themselves during the trial.”
“Well, the least the overpaid shark can do is find a way to get those other bastards to pay up.”
“Again,” I say sadly, “I have doubts that he can.” Reaching out, I rub Colt’s shin briefly. “Come on. Let’s entertain ourselves by seeing what everyone else is up to this weekend. You know I need two days minimum to prepare myself for a party.”