by Hotcheri
Ahmed spluttered with laughter. “She probably gave Hans some action. She is from the barrio, after all. East Harlem.”
Luke chuckled as I stumbled out of the room. “I heard girls from there will do anything,” he said.
My eyes were stinging with tears as I scuttled across the gallery towards the heavy exit door. Why had I stayed so long? Why I had I even come? I was dumb. Did I deserve that kind of treatment? No one deserves that. But the elite Dalton students thought I did. Was that what everyone thought of me? Just some poor girl from the barrio who was getting by using their tuition? A tear squeezed out of my eye and I brushed it away, feeling chilled. All my happy thoughts were gone. For a few minutes, I had thought I belonged, talking to an Astor. But that same Astor had showed me that I would never belong. Even though I was at the best private school in the city, I was still a poor outsider, a minority in their exclusive school and they would never let me forget that. I pushed open the heavy door, using all my strength.
Hearing running steps behind me, I walked faster. It was Luke.
“Celsi! Wait!”
He put a hand on my shoulder to stop me. I spun around in the foyer, the elevator and my escape route in sight. “Why? So you can insult me again? Coz if I want some insulting, I’ll just go home.”
Crap. Why do I keep saying things I should only think?
A puzzled look flitted over Luke’s face. “What?” he asked.
Praying that I wouldn’t cry, I looked up into his face, my eyes flickering over the freckles on his nose, his thick, dark eyelashes and his soft looking lips. “Listen. I’m poor, I wear hand me downs and I will never be as rich as you, but when it comes to treating people with respect and dignity, I have you rich people whipped.”
Luke bit his lip, his hand slipping down till it rested on my lower arm, making my heart do a back flip, even though I couldn’t even feel his hand through my thick jacket. “Look, I just want to-,” he started softly.
Ahmed stuck his head around the opened door, holding up a dollar. “Yo, Celsi, I got a dollar. Will you strip for me?”
Luke turned his head slightly. “Get inside, dude,” he said impatiently. Obediently, Ahmed retreated and the door slammed shut. Luke turned back to me, an inscrutable look in his dark green eyes. I blinked tears away. I didn’t want to cry in front of him, but when people kept insinuating that I was a slut, just because of my background and status in life- it hurt me so bad it was like a physical pain. All I wanted to do was make it back home and break down. “Look Celsi-,” he began.
I shook his hand off. “Kindly let go of me. Your friends are waiting so that you can finish your discussion about how slutty I am.”
And with that parting shot, I almost ran to the elevator where the door man stood, his face impassive as he pressed the buttons for me. I was glad, because if his face had any expression I would have cried.
CHAPTER 3
Mr. guilty.
Luke’s Point of View
I didn’t know that guilt messed with your sleep, but after the restless night I had, I was willing to bear witness on that. It was a fact. I’d write a thesis on it if I had to. Subject- trying to sleep when your head was pounding so hard it felt like a giant fist was squeezing your temples is a giant no-no. And even though I knew that the headache had nothing to do with the Celsi situation, it wasn’t helping.
I dragged myself out of bed less than 30 minutes before school started and went through my usual morning routine -shower, get dressed and stare in the mirror, hoping that today would finally be the day that my hair would comb itself. It wasn’t. But this morning, something was off. It wasn’t just the headache (I’d been having these headaches on and off for a month now, so the pain was something I was almost used to). It wasn’t even the fact that I was ready for school exactly 5 minutes earlier than normal (even though it was something I was sure I wouldn’t be repeating.)
Nope, the ‘off thing’ was that no matter what I did, Celsi’s face swam in front of my eyes, her voice ringing accusingly in my ears.
I rubbed my tired eyes, yawning widely and secretly feeling like a tool. It was guilt, pure and simple. The insomnia was just my own way of punishing myself for the way I acted yesterday.
Why hadn’t I stopped Ahmed and Wendy when it became obvious that they weren’t just fooling around? Hell, why had I even joined in, insulting someone whose only crime was bringing me my homework?
Because you wanted to fit in, a small voice in the back of my head said snidely.
I scowled at my reflection, gripping the rim of the sink so hard my knuckles turned white.
“I don’t need to fit in. I’m Luke Astor,” I said out loud, shaking my hair from my eyes.
Precisely, the small voice crowed triumphantly.
I knew exactly what my conscience was trying to tell me.
I’m Lucas Patrick Astor the Third, the only son of multimillionaire Lucas George Astor Senior, and British Baroness Vanessa Wright. Heir to a fortune so huge, nobody even wants to mention the amount of money I’ll get when I turn 21, let alone when my dad dies and leaves all his money to me and my half-sister. I’m a student at one of the most elite schools in New York City and I have my own private limo and driver.
I’ve got unlimited credit, the pick of the hottest girls in the city and friends who are always ready to party with me.
And as that rich, supremely privileged person, I’m expected to act a certain way. People take one look at me and expect me to be a snobby, spoilt brat, only interested in spending his dad’s money. And so what do I do? Well, I prove them right. I act like a snobby, spoilt brat, and I spend my dad’s money. And guess what?
I hate every second of it.
I hate being rich. I hate living in this ridiculously expensive penthouse and sleeping on 1200 thread count sheets. I hate being tagged the party boy and acting like a jackass just to fit in with my friends. I hate not living up to my father’s expectations.
And most of all, I hate pretending to be someone I’m not. Like roasting a poor, innocent girl in front of my friends, just because they think it’ll be fun and because acting like a nasty, stuck up asshole is expected of someone as rich as me.
‘But when it comes to treating people with respect and dignity, I have you rich people whipped.’
Those words had been floating around my head since last night, intensifying my already throbbing headache. They cut deep and they made me face the honest truth.
I was a jerk. And that meant I had to apologize to Celsi, or I wouldn’t be getting any sleep for a long time. But I wasn’t apologizing just for the sake of my sleep; I was apologizing because of how hurt and tear-filled her eyes had been as she had turned to leave in the foyer.
After I made up my mind to say sorry, a weight felt like it was lifted from my shoulders. I even started whistling as I grabbed two Tylenol and headed to the kitchen, which was empty, to get a glass of juice.
My cheerful mood went down the tubes as my dad strode into the kitchen, his cell phone clamped to his ear and a scowl on his face. I ignored the scowl, concentrating on making a sandwich. He was always angry about one thing or another in the morning. Sometimes, his yelling on the phone was what woke me up. My own personal (if erratic) alarm clock. But somehow, I knew that today’s bad mood had something to do with me.
“Hey, dad,” I said cheerfully, leaning against the kitchen island as my vision suddenly doubled. Holy crap, what the hell was wrong with me? “Want a sandwich?”
“What happened yesterday?” dad barked, snapping his slim phone shut and glaring at me.
Apparently he didn’t want that sandwich.
And you see how right I was? His bad mood was my fault! Not only was I rich, I was psychic too? If I started hearing peoples thoughts I was going to kill myself. I wasn’t interested in knowing what people thought of me. Sometimes, even I hated me.
I shrugged, trying to look as innocent as possible. I had an idea where this was headed.
“What happ
ened with what?” I asked, taking a bite out of the rather dry sandwich. Shit. I forgot the mustard.
Dad came closer to me, stabbing his finger into my chest. I flinched at the angry look in his steel grey eyes. He was well and truly pissed off, thanks to me.
“Don’t play dumb with me, young man; you know what I’m talking about. I made an appointment for you to go see the leading neurologist in the country,” he spat, his eyes locked on mine. “I had to call in some favors, grease a few palms, all so Doctor Khan could get your head checked out.” He slapped me on the forehead as he said this, making me wince. “I even let you stay home from school so you could get ready! And what happens? You don’t even bother showing up for your damn appointment!”
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, a whole day for just one doctor’s appointment? Blame my dad. He doesn’t know how close I am to being expelled. Missing a day of school for no apparent reason is just more ammunition for the school to kick me out.
“I can explain,” I started, holding up my arms in defense. I was a brown belt in karate, but I didn’t think I was a match for dad. He had pure animalistic rage on his side today. All I had on my side was a headache.
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure you can,” dad said, chuckling without a trace of humor as he started to pace the kitchen. He placed his hands behind his back and looked at me. “Well? Start explaining, kiddo. I’m anxious to see how the legendary Luke Astor, with all his tall tales, can get out of this one.”
I took a deep breath, racking my brain for any lie I could tell that would seem believable. None came. My mind was a total blank.
“I don’t care. I don’t want to know what’s wrong with me,” I said finally, feeling like a wuss for even saying it out loud.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to my doctor’s office for my regular checkup. The x-rays uncovered something that my doctor wasn’t quite sure about, a growth in my brain. “It’s probably nothing, but let me refer you to a neurologist,” he told my dad, who came into the doctor’s office fuming because the call made him miss a golf game.
Because golf is way more important than your only son’s health, right?
When I heard that I had a strange growth in my brain, I was so scared that I didn’t sleep for two nights straight. Even now, I was positive that it was more than just ‘nothing’ as Doctor Miles had put it. Coupled with my headaches, the growth-it could be a tumor.
And I didn’t want to find out.
“I don’t want to know what’s wrong with me,” dad mimicked, sneering into my face. I groaned silently. Same old shit. He was a bully in every sense of the word. And his favorite target? Me, of course. His voice turned cold. “You think I’m letting you chicken out of this appointment? I don’t care if you piss yourself when you’re getting that CAT scan, you’ll go to the hospital and they’ll find out what’s wrong with you.”
“And I guess it doesn’t matter if I want to know or not, right?” I asked, knowing the answer already. It didn’t matter what I thought. If dad wanted it, it would come to pass. He was the law around these parts.
“You damn right it doesn’t.” Dad laughed derisively again, stopping right in front of me. “You done acting like a schmuck?” he asked, leaning in so close I could smell the alcohol on his breath. There was no use in arguing with him when he was like this. I simply nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he snarled, looking more like a club bouncer than the urbane, polished businessman he was supposed to be. “This afternoon. 3.45. Mount Sinai. I’ll pick you up myself. Understand?”
I nodded dumbly, hating the way he always talked down to me, making me feel like a kid again. Nothing I did was ever good enough for him, so why should I try? We all knew I was gonna end up a screw up, anyway. “Sure,” I mumbled.
His eyes probed relentlessly into my face, searching for something, a sign of weakness, maybe. I stared back at him impassively, willing myself not to blink. Seemingly satisfied, he nodded and took a step back, grabbing an apple from a fruit bowl.
“Good. Go get your bag and get a move on. You’re going to make me late,” he ordered, already walking out of the kitchen. I followed him into the living room, my lack of sleep making me feel oh so slow.
I’m going to make him late? Since when did I ride with him- anywhere?
“I got a ride,” I protested lamely, knowing that it was no use. Dad owned every conversation. He was always right. This meant I was going to have to spend 15 minutes in his limo as he yelled out some poor unfortunate sucker on his phone. Bully. “Wendy’s picking me up.”
He grabbed his newspapers off of the coffee table, not looking at me. “Bullshit. Every time Wendy picks you up, you and your friends head over to her house for one of your stupid parties. You’re going to school today, son. And if I have to walk you into the building myself, so be it. Let’s get a move on.”
I didn’t even bother replying and telling him that I hadn’t even been to Wendy’s since Shane died. He wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t even care. Shane had been my best friend in the whole wide world since we were in diapers and my dad hadn’t even gone to the funeral. He’d even had the nerve to say Shane, who had dabbled in drugs from time to time (but nothing too heavy, we all used to do a little E once in a while), had brought his death upon himself and that I would be next. What dad forgot was that Shane died in a car accident, not from an overdose. Ever since that day, my respect for my dad just- slid away. He was still my dad, but he was too wrapped up in his own awesomeness to give a damn about me. Unless he was trying to run my life, like now.
I grabbed my bag and we went down the elevator in total silence, except for the occasional rustling of newspaper. Dad’s Mercedes limo was parked right outside our building and we got in, umbrella’s being held over our heads even though it was barely showering. Just another perk of being rich and infamous, right?
We were silent most of the drive to school till out of the blue-
“You better not skip out on me today. You have any idea how much that missed appointment cost me? You always cost me cash with your histrionics,” dad barked. I slouched back in the comfortable seat of the limo, popping open a can of Dr. Pepper and swigging down my Tylenol’s.
“I’ll pay you back when I’m 21 and gain access to my trust fund money,” I replied evenly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
He snorted loud and derisively. “If I come pick you up and you’re not at the front desk, you’re in deep trouble, young man,” he said, changing the subject brusquely.
I stared out of the tinted window at the people hustling up and down the sidewalks and wondered if Celsi was there.
“Can’t wait,” I said idly, sticking my hands in the pockets of my jeans.
The car stopped at the Dalton school entrance. Dad glared at me over his newspaper.
“Get a move on.”
Just another warm, family moment.
“Gotcha,” I mumbled, opening the door and stepping out of the car, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the light and pain flared up in my temples. I slammed the car door shut and walked slowly up the stairs, wondering if the nurse had something stronger than Tylenol. Like maybe some Vicodin.
***
I got through the morning by sleeping through most of my classes- luckily, I don’t snore. Then I started on Mission Apologize to Celsi.
Easier said than done. I couldn’t even find the girl, let alone apologize to her. She wasn’t in the canteen. She wasn’t in the library. She wasn’t in the gym. She wasn’t even under the bleachers.
Walking back to the school after paying a freshman 5 bucks to check in the girl’s locker room (she wasn’t there either), I spotted Wendy, Ahmed and Joanna strolling towards me.
“Hey, daddy’s little princess!” Ahmed greeted me, slapping my back. “You get a wide with daddy dearest today?”
Joanna snorted, kissing me on the cheek, her sweet smelling hair sliding across my face. “Don’t listen to him, he’s hung-over,” she advised me,
putting an arm around my waist.
“I never listen to him. And he’s always hung-over.” I smiled down at Joanna as she placed her head on my shoulder, breathing on my neck.
Ahmed grinned, shrugging casually. “Just because you decided to quit doesn’t mean I should too. I love booze too much, he admitted.
“If your mama only knew,” Wendy said in a warning tone, tossing her blonde hair.
“She would straight up kill me,” he said cheerfully.
Joanna linked her arm in mine, looking up at me. “I’m having a pool party at my place tonight.” She winked at me, managing to look deliciously sexy and evil all at once. “Clothing optional.”
“Is your boyfriend invited?” I asked, bringing my lips closer to her ear so that I could nibble it. She giggled naughtily.
“No. but what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him,” she said teasingly.
Joanna is my ex and even though we broke up about two months ago, we still hook up whenever we feel like it. No strings attached. It works well for both of us, but I didn’t see her boyfriend liking the fact that we were friends with benefits. The guy already hated me, how much more would he hate me if he found out that I occasionally hooked up with his girlfriend?
I looked up and groaned as I saw Timothy Wheeler striding towards us across the quad.
“Speak of the devil,” I told Joanna, letting go of her. She straightened her dress and turned to Timothy, who was flexing. Moron.
“Hi, baby,” she said before giving him a big kiss. I wasn’t jealous. It’s not like I was in love with her or anything.