by Lucy Auburn
"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.
"I'll be fine. As long as the key card works to let me back in."
"Oh, Mrs. Reynolds will test it out for you. See ya later!" She's about to head out when she pauses and adds, "One last hot tip: the showers are crazy busy in the mornings, so I highly suggest you shower in the evening if that's something you're into. Even here at Coleridge, hot water is in limited supply."
I frown. "I thought our room came with its own bathroom?"
"Half bath," she corrects, sighing forlornly. "I mean, it's better than nothing—you won't catch me using a public toilet anywhere outside Japan—but alas, the only place to shower is with the other girls. And they hog their steam."
"Got it. Thanks for the tip."
I watch her as she leaves, long dark ponytail swaying behind her, steps eager and quick. In another life, in another world, a girl like me and Holly could be friends.
Then again, I was friends with Maggie until she got a rich boyfriend and ditched me for beach houses in Rhode Island with his posh family. Maybe no one can really be friends with a great divide between them like money.
When I knock, Mrs. Reynolds calls out, "Come in." It's easy enough to explain what I need and get my ID coded to open up the room in addition to all the labs, libraries, and other buildings I need to get into. There's something creepy about all of the card's features—for one thing, it can track us almost anywhere on campus, given how often it connects to a sensor or gets swiped through a terminal—but at least I won't have to worry about anything as long as I never lose it.
The key works, and Holly is out, so I have at least a few minutes to myself in the room. I make the bed with the regulation Coleridge sheets, ignoring the twinge of jealousy I feel at their low thread count compared to what Holly has. In addition to the white sheet with the blue Coleridge insignia on them, there's also a blue comforter with gold thread at the edges. Coleridge colors are blue and gold; money and royalty brought to life.
Once the bed is made, I open up my side of the wardrobe and try not to stare into Holly's side. It's simple enough to hang up the few dresses I have, then the Coleridge button-ups and skirts. I put my pajamas, athletic clothing, socks, underwear, and bras into the little dresser on my side of room and stare at the empty space in the drawers.
I remember what Tanner said. "I'd set you up with him, but you're not his type." He meant that Blake Lee wouldn't date someone crazy enough to burn an Elite's hand, but there were other things implied in his tone. I'm not one of these Coleridge girls, born into the upper class with money to burn. Someone like Blake would never roll around in the muck with a girl like me.
But Tanner seemed to imply that he would.
Unlike the other three Elites, Tanner George Connally wasn't born to money. His father is a self-made man who grew up in a trailer park and became a race car driver at a young age. Skill and athleticism rocketed him to the top, and he became the face of dozens of brand sponsorships.
Then came the talk show interviews. The charming speeches about politics, and what family means to him. He grew up and settled down, gave up racing, and started running in local politics. Money rolled in, just like when he was a driver, and soon enough he made it to the national stage as a senator from Kentucky.
Tanner may have plenty of wealth in his family now, but his father didn't make it right away, and the Connally were young newlyweds when Tanner was born. I bet he remembers what it was like not to have much; his father probably tells him all the time how lucky he is.
And I know already that he's a player, the kind of guy who'd get called the school slut if he were a girl instead.
Gears whir in my mind, plans taking formation. If I'm going to face the guys as myself, and not just Legacies, I need to figure out a way in, a way to tear them apart and turn them against each other the way they turned against my brother. Tanner is a weak spot, a messy impulsive nouveau riche without the class of the other three.
I've never seduced a guy before.
I wonder if I could.
The thought of trying thrills me.
First, though, I pull Silas's old laptop out of my bag, set it on the desk, and turn it on. The low battery alert flashes, forcing me to plug it in; the computer is a couple of years old and running on empty. It's also low on storage space for some reason, despite having a one terabyte hard drive Silas upgraded it to himself with lawn mowing money and a few YouTube videos.
I don't understand much about computers, but thankfully I don't need to in order to take these guys down. Yesterday I reactivated the blog and set up the tip line, then scheduled a post to go live today. It's up now, and has already gotten over a thousand views from the blog's loyal readers. It doesn't hurt that I set up the blog posts to push alerts to Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, and of course Secretz, the newest social media website for anonymous gossip.
It's been a while. What do I have to say to excuse this blog's hiatus, except that in the age of SnapInstaTwitter, people have moved on from this old format. It is, not to make a pun, a legacy of the old internet.
But the need for a blog like this isn't dead. With the rich up to their old antics, from Elizabeth Holmes at Theranos to Mark Zuckerberg's ongoing scandals, there's a need to stop the rich and privileged before they gain power. Every Elon Musk has a hidden sordid past, and the only way to stop them is before they ascend to power.
So tell us about this generation's rich, spoiled, and Insta-famous. Is there an influencer who lies about their finances, a teenage pop star faking their songwriting abilities, or an heir to an empire with a drug problem? Tell us. Send your tips to our inbox, and we'll make sure they make it to this blog—and to our newly reactivated social media sites, including our br
and new Snapchat and Secretz accounts, because we know that's where everything happens these days.
Until the dirt is excavated, this is Legacies signing off.
I studied the style of the blog's previous posts and did my best to match the style of Legacies I and Legacies III. As the third person to admin the blog, I've got quite the mantle to take on. Legacies is the website that exposed the admissions scandal of Wordsworth Preparatory School in 2010 and the cocaine ring of Missionary Academy of Pennsylvania in the early 2000s.
Of course, the punishment students at both schools suffered was short-lived. It's not hard to find the public profile of the cocaine ring boys and discover that they're investors, tech moguls, and even one District Attorney now. The blog comes up buried in search results when you look up their names, further proof that the rich get second chances the poor never do.
Curious to see if I've gotten anything, I open up the Legacies email inbox and all its social media DMs. There are a few comments on the blog wondering if there's gossip to come out—and a few angry emails complaining that the hiatus ever happened in the first place.
Someone sent a tip that a rich ambassador's son in a prep school in Los Angeles is cheating on his girlfriend with a teacher. Cringing, I set it aside to look at later, in case that teacher needs to be reported for sleeping with an underage boy. There's also a tip that looks promising at first, but devolves into a claim that some kids at a school called Miskatonic Prep are the dead brought back to life with dark magic and ritualistic sacrifice—obvious fiction from the mind of someone obsessed with Lovecraft. I appreciate the creativity, but I can't publish something this out there on a blog dedicated to truth and justice.
So none of the tips are usable, but at least this is a sign that there are still people out there who want to see rich kids brought to justice. There has to be some dirt about the Elites forthcoming. The tip line even has a drop down for which rich kid school a tip applies to, and I made sure Coleridge was in there prominently.
By the time Holly returns to the room, a few hours have passed and I've calmed down considerably about my run-in with Cole. After all, there's nothing he can do to me that could possibly compare to what he did to my brother—and I have my own social media power I can use to fight back if he does.
So it's a surprise when the first thing my new roommate says as she walks into the room is, "Cole told me that he put you on his list."
Chapter 11
"He marked you," she continues, studying me with her bright green eyes. "Is that true?"
Worrying on my lower lip, I admit, "Yeah, it's true. He told me it was 'you'll regret this' like some kind of TV villain."
"Oh, God." Sighing, she rolls her eyes and flops down onto her bed, crossing her legs in front of her. "I thought maybe he was fucking with me, but he wasn't. Of course he would manage to start some inane bullshit with my roommate before classes even start." She eyes me. "Was it really all because you helped that Lakewood girl get her purse down from a tree?"
"Yeah. He said I should mind my own business."
She rolls her eyes again. "I swear, I keep thinking he'll grow out of this shit. He promised me he'd be better behaved here than he was at our last school."
"Is it going to be some sort of problem?"
Holly cocks her head at me. "What do you mean?"
"With us." I motion from me, to her, then back again. "I mean, he said it was open season, and that anyone who helped me would become a social pariah. He said I wouldn't have any friends on campus."
"He's so fucking dramatic." Holly picks at her nails, flaking off old polish, as she settles back into her designer pillows. "I mean, crossing Cole isn't the best way you could start the school year. He's an annoying asshole when he wants to be. But all he's going to do is prank you. As long as you sniff your shampoo bottle for Nair and don't leave your phone unlocked, you'll be fine."
"Nair, really?"
"Yeah, I had to buy April Conway a designer wig last year to make up for that one. I swear, one of these days Cole is gonna cross a line, and I'll be forced to make him pick between me and the pranks." She snorts indelicately, twirling the end of her dark ponytail around one finger. "Can you believe I'm not even sure he'd pick me? Those bets and bullshit games he plays with his friends are like, what he lives for."
I press my lips together to keep from informing Holly that actually, he has crossed a line. She may not see what he did to my brother as some kind of prank—after all, she probably thinks he was guilty, just like her boyfriend and the rest of the Elites.
I'll have to tread lightly with the future Mrs. Masterson, but it sounds like for now I'm safe. Unless of course this is all an act, and she's lying to me so I won't suspect it when I find bugs in my lunch or milk poured over my laptop.
"As long as we're cool, I should probably ask you... do you think it would be alright if I applied to be one of the Rosalinds?"
Her eyes light up. "Absolutely! We need fresh meat. The only girls who have shown interest so far keep asking me if being one of us means they get to set up their own date for the Blind Ball." She rolls her eyes. "Boy-obsessed, all of them. But you seem cool. And I already know you can climb—that'll come in handy, since what we need more than anything is another host for our rock climbing event, if you're interested."
"I'll do it," I promise, already imagining what I'll be able to achieve with a little bit of spending money on hand. Not to mention, it sounds like these social events could be a good way to network around campus and find out what the Elites must be hiding. "Whatever you need, I'm game. Especially since it pays. This way I won't have to try to find some kind of work study job or a retail position off-campus."
"Perfect." Beaming, Holly jumps off her bed and holds out her hand to me, and I stretch my arm out to take it. "I had the feeling you'd be a fun roommate. Just don't get too caught up in my boyfriend's little games—I swear, he makes a mess of everything he touches. The sooner you ignore him and move on, the sooner he'll be done acting little an immature brat and leave you alone."
I squeeze her hand and pump it once or twice, murmuring, "Oh, I won't try to take him on. I know better than to get in trouble—I've got a scholarship I can't jeopardize, after all."
Legacies can take on Cole. Brenna Cooke is going to be ingratiating herself to his girlfriend and his best friend, figuring out how to take him down from the inside once and for all.
"Consider yourself part of the team, Brenna." Holly beams at me. "I can't wait for us to get started."
Dinner on the weekends is held in our respective dormitories, unlike on days with classes. I walk into the small Rosalind dining hall worried that something might happen, on edge ever since I crossed Cole, but no one even looks at me.
Somehow that's worse. I hate that around here, I fade into the background. I may not have been the prettiest girl in Wayborne, or even the cleverest, but everyone there at least knew me. They looked at me, and more than that, they saw me. Here at Coleridge I might as well be the ornate wallpaper, that's how much attention I get.
After dinner I decide to take Holly's advice and opt for an evening shower. I take the opportunity to sniff my shampoo and conditioner, just in case the Nair thing was actually her idea. She may act nice, but I don't trust her.
There's no acrid smell of hair remover in my stuff, though, so I grab my shower caddy and take it down the hall to the dorm showers. No doubt they're the same athlete's-foot-infested showers you get anywhere, so I make sure to slip on flip flops to use while I scrub myself down.
But the Rosalind Hall second floor bathroom isn’t your typical communal shower. For one thing, it has a sitting area just beyond the door. A group of girls is sitting on the plush sofas, gabbing with one another. I spot a redhead who seems familiar from the tour, and a girl with dark hair who gives me a withering look. One of the other girls is painting her nails, taking great care, the expression on her face rapturous—as if she's worshipping a god and not just giving one of her rich peers an
unpaid manicure.
Deciding that I’m not in Kansas anymore, I shake my head and walk past the walled partition into the bathroom beyond.
Beyond the sitting room, it’s nothing at all like what I expected.
I knew things here would be fancy.
I just had no idea how incredibly, stupidly ostentatious they would be. To the point where I find myself wondering if I’m making the bathroom dirty just by being here.
The tiles are a dark, near-black grey that’s probably Italian porcelain, the shower stalls are wide and private, and the countertops are granite, each sink basin made of clean, delicate marble.
A row of vanities separates out the shower area on the left from the toilets on the right. Even though it's not peek showering time, more than one girl sits in front of a mirror with beauty lights, carefully over-lining her upper lip or strobing her cheekbones with the latest highlighter palette. There’s a cupboard full of fluffy white towels, each embroidered with the Coleridge Academy logo on one corner, and I swear that the shower stall in the corner has a rain shower head.
It should smell like Lysol and have hair gathering in the drain. That’s what the college dorm I stayed at during a field trip to Richmond one summer was like. Instead it feels like the fanciest bathroom in a high rise, or something taken straight out of a Singaporean mall for billionaires.
This bathroom must take an incredible amount of effort to keep clean and beautiful. By all rights it cost a fortune.
And yet, somehow, it all makes sense. Because when I look at my fellow students plugging in their expensive hair dryers to give themselves blowouts, putting on what must be many steps in a skincare routine, and tugging on the waists of their skirts to bring their hemline up as much as they dare, I realize that it couldn’t be any other way.