by Rebel Hart
It didn’t take a lot of convincing to move. Mom’s ties to Jameson plus my scholarship and the opportunity to train under a former Olympian… Fuck, I could be set for life with just this one year stint at WJ prep.
And now I’m here. A week before the semester starts. In a strange town with the opportunity of my life. Pre-season workouts would start a couple weeks in, but David had emailed a ‘suggested’ workout. He wasn’t technically able to supervise practice so early before the season starts in February.
Jameson is hilly, and I’m not used to hills. I push myself, feeling the remnants of my strength ebb as I struggle to put one leg in front of the other. With another right, I face an ornate gate: Crescent Hills, it reads. And holy fuck do these bitches have money.
I slow my pace, entering the community. The homes I pass get bigger and bigger as I go along. Immaculately landscaped yards feature fountains, perfect grass, trimmed hedges and sparkling driveways. Each one is breathtaking – clearly, this is the Mansion District. Many have gates across their drives, which lead up to columned porches framing massive wood or glass doors. Large stone potted plants decorate the porches, and I wonder what else these luxurious homes could be hiding behind their large windows and rooftop terraces.
As I run, each house rises into the backs of the mountain, and the road winds higher and higher. The steep elevation crucifies my legs. Jesus. My breath is painful, ripping an agonizing tear through my chest each time I inhale. What if I stopped here? I’m close enough to halfway.
I pause at a bend in the road. It overlooks the city before winding behind me, to further houses buried into the hills. Excuse me. Mansions.
Jameson sprawls below me. It is lit by the waning late summer light. I take a moment to bounce on my toes, feeling sweat dry on my calves as a cool breeze hit me. It’s a gorgeous place, that I can admit. My town back in Oklahoma was flat, with concrete buildings and concrete roads and concrete fences. It was a concrete jungle, with little style and no beauty points. Only in the spring months did the flowers contrast the gray.
Time to go.
I start down the hill, letting gravity doing most of the work. Ahead, the first car that I’ve seen emerges, slowly driving toward me. It’s a fucking fancy car. I stare at it. It glimmers a fire engine red, and as I get closer I notice the Lamborghini logo.
Fuck, these people are hella rich.
Suddenly, the car revs. It beelines toward me. A rush of red. The engine roars. A loud engine. It barrels down. Its lights aren’t on, I notice. I can barely register what’s happening before I dive out of the way. My foot dings the headlight as the car swerves just at the last second.
I land in the ditch. My feet are instantly soaked from the days-old water. Tremors shake my legs as I inch myself down to the sweet, sweet ground.
They just tried to run me over!
Cold adrenaline shocks my system.
I could have died.
“Oh my fucking gawd,” screams a high-pitched voice.
A wafer-thin girl appears above me. Her manicured nails are gripping her sharp hipbones, and she looks pissed. Her honey-blonde hair falls in heavy curls, and her face is Instagram-beautiful. Her pouty lips are curled into a sneer.
“You fucking dinged my car, bitch,” she says.
I frown. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and pink blouse. But she looks my age, around seventeen.
“Your car?” I ask. The red sports car is pulled over, idling. There’s another girl lounging on the trunk. Her red hair is pulled back into a severely high bun, her lips as red as blood. She’s also beautiful, but in a kinder, softer way. “The one that tried to run me over?”
“Don’t get smart with me, bitch.”
I start to stand up, but before I can even register movement, her platformed heel hits my shoulder. Hard. I tumble down, my butt landing in the water. A sharp pain radiates up my arm. A breath stills in my throat as I pull my hand up, cradling my wrist.
Great. Now I’m soaking wet and my wrist is sprained.
“What the fuck, bitch?” I snarl, pulling myself out of the ditch. She’s shorter than me by a couple inches, and I’ve got at least twenty pounds of muscle on her. She doesn’t look as intimidating now. Her blue eyes, still haughty, flash with momentary fear. “What’s your problem?”
“Vivian and I are just needing to clean up the white trash in the street,” she snaps. “So next time you go running, make sure to watch where you’re going.”
She turns on a heel, stalking back to her car.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I call after her. My wrist throbs. Goddammit. I’d just gotten over a thigh strain, and I was looking forward to running without pain for once. “Hey, you!”
“I’m sorry,” said the red-haired one. Vivian. Yeah, the name suits her. She purred with disgust. “We don’t acknowledge dripping garbage.”
They pile into the car. Then reverse. I jump out of the way, glaring daggers at them. The girl who shoved me rolls down the window.
“What is your fucking problem?” I ask. “Who are you?”
“Oh, you’ll learn about us pretty soon,” says the girl named Vivian. She leans across the console, giving me a patronizing wink. Her eyelashes are so heavily layered in mascara, it’s a wonder she can even keep her eyelids open. “Very soon.”
“Look, new girl. I know all about you,” says the girl in the driver’s seat. “And you’re going to wish you’d never even heard of WJ Prep.”
“Why do you care?” I ask.
“You’re scholarship scum. And if I ever see you running through my neighborhood again... ” She breaks off with a laugh then fixes me with a glare that turns my insides cold. She smiles, her tone now hauntingly playful. “I won’t miss you next time. Ta-Ta!”
With a peal of tires, she spins out, the red lambo taking off down the street with a scream. The smell of exhaust lingers in the air.
I stand there for a few moments, letting the waning sun bake my feverish skin. My heart rate calms its erratic pounding. I close my eyes and tilt my head up to the sky. What the heck just happened? Suddenly, all the beautiful houses I had been passing look ominous. It could be a combination of the darkening sky or the recent interaction I’d just had, but I notice that the windows are dark. Of nearly all the beautiful houses, only a few have their lights on.
The need to leave strikes me. I start running again. My wrist has recovered somewhat, but each jarring step reminds me that I’ll need to ice it tonight.
Who was that girl? And how did she know who I was?
My step-dad, Brendan, is cooking dinner when I arrive home. It smells heavenly, and my stomach is growling.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, giving him a kiss on his gruff cheek. “Whatcha making?”
“Hey, Ophelia. Spaghetti and meatballs,” he says, looking at the timer on the oven.“Just a little over ten minutes on the meatballs. Sauce is simmering. Hand me that packet of pasta by your left hand. Please.”
I do as he asks. “Here. I need to shower.”
“Yeah ya’ do,” he says, not looking at me. He’s a focused cook, and I can’t help but smile when he says, “You absolutely reek.”
“Thanks,” I call out sarcastically. Brendan has been my dad since I was ten, though he’s been with my mom much longer than that. He’s more of my dad than my bio-dad, who I’ve never met and who I never really want to meet. He skipped out on my mom just months after I was born.
Brendan is a large teddy bear. His physically imposing form throws some people off – not to mention his tattoo sleeves and scruffy beard. But in my entire life, I’ve never once considered him anything other than my dad, and he’s loved me as he would a daughter.
The duplex we are renting has two bedrooms and one bath, but it’s cozy and recently renovated. I grab my shower stuff and a change of clothes before hitting the shower. The hot water works out all my knots. But the strange, uneasy feeling that’s twisted in my gut doesn’t go away. As I towel off, the blonde girl’s cruel smile
flashes in my mind.
Next time I won’t miss.
Jesus, what kind of girl goes around threatening to run people over?
Apparently rich and entitled assholes.
My wrist aches a little, so I pop a couple aspirin from the cabinet. After I change, I join Brendan in the kitchen.
“When’s Mom getting off?” I ask.
“Her shift ends at 8:30, so pretty soon.”
As a Registered Nurse, Mom sometimes works odd hours. But she was able to get a job lined up at Golden Hills Community Medical Center even before we left Oklahoma. For the past week, she’s been in training. Brendan has a couple of interviews lined up this week. There was always a demand for an Electrical Power-Line guy, but I can tell he is getting antsy playing domestic.
I play with my phone as Brendan finishes up cooking. He hands me a plate and I fill up. The first thing we did when we moved in was to finish unpacking the kitchen. Mom doesn’t like eating off plastic plates.
“How was your run?” he asks around a mouthful of meatball.
“Horrible,” I say before I can catch myself.
He frowns, concerned. I’ve never been super negative about my workouts before. “How so?”
“Some asshole teenagers tried to run me over,” I say. “Fucking teenage little shits.”
“You are a teenager.”
I roll my eyes. “Are you missing the larger point, here?”
“Did you get the license plate?”
“No, I was too shocked to do anything. She also got out of her car and shoved me into a fucking ditch and I sprained my wrist.” I stab a meatball viciously. “And now I’m going to have to work out around a fucking sprained wrist and I was just getting over my strained hamstring.”
“Where were you?”
“Crescent Hills. Apparently the place for rich people.”
“You know who it was?”
“Nooope,” I say, extending the word with irritation. I stab another meatball and fit the whole thing in my mouth. “Ah, ah, hot hot hot!” I chew with an open mouth and swallow the meat when I can. I take a gulp of milk. “But if it helps, she drove a flaming hot red Lamborghini.”
Brendan snorts around his beer. “A kid? Jesus, no kid needs such an expensive car. That insurance must be through the roof!”
Practical Brendan. Thinking about things in terms of money. “Like how much?”
“An insane amount. I know we spend 450 a year for you with your Good Student Discount. I can’t imagine adding a teenager to an insurance policy with a Lambo on it.”
There’s a rustling at the door, and Mom enters, carrying several grocery bags.
“Ophelia,” she says, stumbling over to the counter. “There’s several more bags in the back.”
I grumble but oblige, heading outside in my stockinged feet. I grab the rest and let the door slam behind me.
“Ooh, meatballs,” I hear my mother say. “What’s the special occasion?”
“I figured Ophelia’s first day at school is celebration enough,” says Brendan. I enter right as they kiss, and hide my smile.
Brendan is huge. My mother is decidedly not. She’s full on Mexican-American – thick black hair, tanned skin and short. She passed on her light-brown eyes to me, though I inherited my height and athleticism from my wayward bio-dad. When my parents kiss, Brendan has to hunch to reach her lips.
I have always found it comical. With my mom barely reaching five foot and Brendan well over six-four, they’re quite a pair.
“Okay, okay,” I say, “Let’s eat. I almost got ran over today and I’m not feeling very in tune with the world right now and just want to eat my spaghetti.”
“What?” Mom rounds on me, her eyes widening in surprise. She’s still in her blue scrubs, and she rushes up to me. “Are you hurt?”
“Nope,” I say. She hugs me like I’m the last lifesaver in the ocean. “It’s fine. It was a one-time incident.”
It takes some time to convince Mom that yes, I’m unhurt, and yes, I’m not going to run through Crescent Hills again. She finally calms down enough so we can finish eating. I have to reheat my food in the microwave, piling on seconds. As I wait, my phone buzzes on the counter.
I look at the number.
Unknown. (617)-722-0000.
I watch it ring until it stops. It’s not from Massachusetts, but something nags me in the back of my brain. I frown.
“Something wrong, Ophelia?” asks Mom.
My phone buzzes with a Missed Call Notification. I watch it to see if a message will pop up. “No,” I answer. I take my plate out of the microwave. “Motherfucker!”
“Ophelia!”
“Sorry,” I say, waving my hand in the air. My fingers burn. “The plate was hot.”
As I join my parents at the table again, I stick my phone in my pocket. It vibrates against my thigh. I sneak a peek.
The Unknown Number has texted me: “Ophelia.”
A cold chill spreads through my chest. No way. It has to be that fucking bitch who tried to run me over. I’m almost certain of it.
“Sorry,” I say, pulling my phone onto the table. My mother has a strict no-phone policy when we’re eating together. I see her eyebrows dip in disapproval, but I’m too busy deleting the text message and blocking the number to care.
Whoever that girl was – and her stupid friend Vivian – I’m not going to let them get to me. Never mind how they got my number or know who I am.
“So, Mom,” I say, putting my phone back into my pocket. “Tell me about your day.”
As Mom talks about her first full day of work, my mind runs at a million miles an hour. Tomorrow is my first day at WJ Prep, and for some reason, these two rich girls hate me. It wasn’t getting off to a great start, but I was sure they would forget me by tomorrow. Don’t rich girls have attention spans like goldfish? I’m sure I read that somewhere. Besides, I’m only here to run and get good grades. I don’t want to make a stir, and if I stay out of their way, they’ll stay out of mine.
My fingers play along the screen of my phone. My unease returns. How did they find my number so quickly? A chilling feeling settles over my skin. Suddenly, I’m not excited to attend school tomorrow.
Chapter Two
BOOK 1
Weis-Jameson Preparatory Academy is a private Catholic school.
The tuition? It’ll replace the cost of a nice new Honda Accord with all the nice finishings.
The endowment? In the millions.
It’s not surprising that given the cost of attendance is so high, only around five-hundred students 9th-12th grade attend. From what I read on their website, tuition-waiver scholarships are rare.
I’ve never worn a uniform in my life. A couple days ago, a large box with my name on it appeared on the front door. Inside it was the most uncomfortable apparel I’ve ever seen. I live and breathe athletic and comfortable. When I opened the box, I was greeted with five sets of pants and skirts, two “spirit” tees, three different types of jackets and cardigans and four uniform polo shirts. Each top had a monogramed WJ logo on it.
They were a surprisingly good fit. Clearly they’d taken my size from the publicity photos at the meets. But still uncomfortable.
I sit in my car in the parking lot – the lady at the front desk instructed me to park in the visitors’ lot until I got assigned a space. This morning was hot, and I put on the khaki skirt and blue polo shirt.
I regret choosing something that exposes so much skin. I should have bundled up. The students... They are intimidating at first glance. The ones streaming by my car to enter the cavernous front of WJ Prep somehow look cooler than I do.
I watch them, fingering the hem of my skirt. What makes them different? Is it the stylized bags the girls have draped over their forearm? Is it the one-hundred-dollar hair-cuts the boys are sporting?
It’s like I’ve entered a different universe where everyone is gorgeous and perfect and look cut out from a magazine. At my old school in Oklahoma, the dress-code was w
hatever you could get away with. Miniskirts, crop tops, see-through leggings, fishnets, baggy pants, wife-beaters, baseball caps – anything went so long as you avoided the stricter teachers in the hall.
I steel my nerves. Okay, so I’m uncomfortable. The tag of my polo itches my neck. My beat-up sneakers are a far cry from those expensive-looking ballet flats that girl is sporting.
But so what. I’m here to run.
I open my car door and step into the throng, making my way to the front office. When they’d offered me the scholarship, I’d done a campus visit. I’m not as in awe this time as I walk through the sparkling glass doors and enter the office.
There’s a slew of students hanging around the front desk, so I join a line.
“Ophelia Lopez,” I say to the secretary. Her manicured nails type my name into the system.
“Your liaison is Jason,” she says, handing me a freshly printed schedule. “He’ll take you around to all your classes today.”
“Jason?” I echo.
“That’s me,” comes a masculine voice behind me.
I turn around. Jason is tall, intimidating and angry. A flicker of unease builds in my belly. Who spat on his cornflakes? His eyes flick up and down my figure before landing on mine with disgust. He’s got a shock of blonde hair that’s shorn on the sides, and his face is thin, pinched.
He almost reminds me of Draco Malfoy. I want to see his sneer to confirm.
He snatches my schedule out of my hands. “What’s your first class?” He groans, then shoots me a look of contempt. “Fucking Calculus. Way on the opposite side of where my class is.”
Jason’s bitter attitude sours my expression. “What is your deal?” I demand, grabbing my schedule back. He takes off, presumably to direct me to the Math wing, and doesn’t answer.
“I’m Ophelia,” I say to his back.
“I don’t care,” he growls. Suddenly, he whirls around, his hand finding my chest and shoving me back. I stumble into a girl, who glares at me.
What is wrong with the people at this school?
Jason steps close, but I stand my ground. I can’t let these people see that I’m weak. This is obviously some sort of first day harassment.