Rich Boys vs. Poor Boys (The Cruel Kings of Castle Hill Academy, Book 1) by Devon Hartford kd103

by Hartford, Devon

  “I can do that.” I’m not afraid of hard work. It’s all I know.

  She disregards my second interruption with restrained annoyance and says, “Three, you will strictly adhere to the student code of conduct at all times. Do I make myself clear, Mizz Angerman?”

  I smirk at her.

  She smirks back, “Now you find your manners?”

  I shrug and stay silent.

  “I require a verbal answer, Mizz Angerman. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal,” I say, still smirking.

  “Finally, it should go without saying, Mizz Angerman, but I will say it anyway for your benefit. The commission of any crimes from this day forward, be they merely in violation of the student code of conduct, or more seriously, in violation of the laws of this state resulting in criminal prosecution, be they either a misdemeanor or a felony, shall result in your immediate and permanent expulsion from both the work-study program, and Castle Hill Academy.”

  “Duh. Obviously,” I grumble.

  “If it was so obvious, Mizz Angermen, then why was it necessary for me to send Mr. Ralston to fetch you from juvenile hall today?”

  I hide my embarrassment with an annoyed sneer.

  She returns the sneer with ample superiority. Her eyes give me a quick once-over that is dripping with disdain. She says, “We will have to do something about your hair. It simply won’t do.”

  “It looks better with product in it.” My floppy pink mohawk is hanging over one eye like bangs. I blow it a puff of breath for emphasis.

  “And those piercings of yours. You look like a pin cushion. Pull them out.” She offers her open palm expectantly.

  “What?” I balk. I have a bunch of ear piercings, but that’s it. Nobody even notices ear piercings anymore, which is why I’ve been debating about getting a lip piercing or something more edgy than effing earrings. It’s not like I have tapers or spirals or gauges or whatever. It’s just freaking earrings.

  “Your jewelry, Mizz Angerman, is in violation of our dress code, as is your hair, which are sections three-b and three-c of the student code of conduct.”

  “No they’re not,” I scoff. “I saw Eliza-bitch Morgan-Hearst wearing a nose piercing, and a tongue ring! And have you seen her hair? It looks atrocious!”

  “Watch your tongue, Mizz Angerman! I will not have anyone using such foul language in my presence!”

  “Atrocious?” I snort. “That’s foul?! Oh, you mean because I said Eliza-bitch.” I sneer, “Well, she—”

  Skelter cuts in, “Is none of you concern, Mizz Angerman. Now hand it over!”

  “No!”

  Ms. Skelter lowers her arm and her eyes bore into me with a hateful smile. She keeps her glare locked on me as she says, “Mr. Ralston, if you would be so kind as to return Mizz Angerman back to juvenile detention? I believe the district attorney’s office is ready and willing to press charges for attempted murder.”

  Mr. Ralston dances nervously, “Are you sure, Ms. Skelter? Can’t we just—”

  “NO! We can’t JUST anything, Mr. Ralston! Mizz Angerman will follow the rules or we will turn her over to the authorities!”

  I blurt, “You can’t do that!”

  Ms. Skelter sneers at me, “I can do anything I please, Mizz Angerman! I am the headmistress of Castle Hill Academy! While you are under my care, you will do what I tell you! If you do not, it’s off to jail with you!”

  “Prison,” I grumble.

  “Whot?!” She actually says “whot.”

  “Prison,” I insist. “You don’t go to jail for attempted murder. You go to prison, whot.” I mutter the word whot.

  She glares at me for a long time. She heard. Once she comes to a boil, she blusters, “I don’t care where you go, Mizz Angerman! As long as it is out of my sight this instant!”

  I glance at Mr. Ralston.

  The uncertainty knotting his face suggests he knows his place.

  I say in a low voice, “Is she serious?”

  “Always,” he mutters.

  Ms. Skelter offers a victorious smile. Once again, she lifts her palm, waiting for me to hand over my jewelry.

  I glare at her hand. “Fine!” I start ripping earrings out of my ears. Drop them on the floor one by one until I’m done. “There’s your stupid jewelry,” I saw as haughtily as she did.

  “Excellent,” Ms. Skelter smiles. “Your next task will be to pick those up.”

  “What?! I’m not picking them up! You pick them up!”

  “Mr. Ralston! Remove her from my office immediately!”

  Mr. Ralston takes a step toward me then stops. He doesn’t want to do it. “Ms. Skelter, she’s new. She’s learning the rules. She’s—”

  “MR. RALSTON! SHALL I HAVE YOU REMOVED TOO?!”

  “No, ma’am.” He bows his head. Then walks over to me and says pathetically, “My sincerest apologies, Miss Angerman. It wasn’t right to bring you all this way. I’ll get your things.”

  I’m shaking with hatred and fear. Hatred for Mizz Skeleton, yes, Skeleton, because that’s what she is, an evil skeleton, and my fear of going to prison. I’m about to scream in her face and tell her to fuck the fuck off and shove her witch’s broomstick up her cunt when I remember Queen LaQueefa and juvi. They’re the least of my problems. If the state tries me as an adult and a jury finds me guilty, I won’t be going back to juvi. I’ll be going to a maximum security women’s prison.

  Is my pride worth that?

  No way.

  Life has taught me that it will always break you. No matter how hard you fight it, something or somebody else always wins. If I have to choose between losing in prison and losing here, I’d be an idiot not to let myself lose here.

  “Fine!” I nearly scream and drop to my knees. “I’ll pick up your stupid jeeeewelry,” I mock, my face burning with rage, my entire body an inferno of impotence.

  “It’s not mine,” Ms. Skelter says archly, watching me like a hateful hawk.

  When I have my collection of rings in hand, I unzip my backpack and prepare to stash them inside.

  “You will give them to me, young lady.” Ms. Skelter waves a hand.

  I consider slamming my rings into her wretched skeletal palm in hopes that I’ll poke holes in her thin skin. I’m about to do it when I hear Rob warning me in my head, Keep your head down, Mouth. Life here isn’t so bad if you follow orders.

  He would know better than I.

  With an annoyed sigh, I pour my rings into Ms. Skelter’s hand.

  Guess who won that round?

  All of a sudden, I understand exactly why Rob kissed Prince’s shoe. That wasn’t half as traumatic as what Mizz Skelter just put me through, and I didn’t even have to kiss her shoe. I also realize Rob is much tougher than I gave him credit for. What was it Grayson always said about fighting? You can hit all you want, but if you can’t take a punch, you aren’t a fighter.

  If kissing a shoe counts as taking a punch, Rob stepped right into it without batting an eyelash. I was the one avoiding it like a sissy.

  That means Rob is wiser than I am. He better be. He’s at least five years older than me, maybe even ten. Now I see what he meant by pick your battles. I’m drained, and what do I have to show for it?

  Nothing.

  Except my very own nickname. Mouth. Technically I already have two, but I’m not counting Prince calling me strumpet, because I can’t decide if I maybe kinda sorta like Prince in a weird way, or if I absolutely despise him.

  Rob I like, no question, and that makes me smile.

  But I won’t be smiling for long.

  Prince didn’t go far enough when he called Ms. Skelter a little bit of a bitch. Gigantic is the word I’ll be going with shortly.

  Yes, she gets worse.

  Chapter 11

  “Now we’ll take care of your hair,” Ms. Skelter says.

  Perfect. I hate wearing it limp in public, especially on the first day at a new school. There’s nothing like having foot-high pink spikes on your head to wa
rn the bitches off. If I’d had them when I’d met Eliza-bitch earlier, she might not’ve said anything.

  Ms. Skelter leads me to the academy’s very own tiny salon. We cross a courtyard, pass yet another fountain, go up curving brick steps to an elevated patio with two French doors. Inside is the super cutest two-chair salon I’ve ever seen. Like a storybook. I don’t know how to describe it. Colorful, comfy, and chic at the same time. Even has a view of the distant ocean. At the moment, there’s no one in the salon.

  “Who’s this for?” I ask.

  “Anyone at the academy,” Ms. Skelter says.

  “How much do you guys charge?”

  “For staff such as yourself, salon services are gratis.”

  My eyes light up, “Shut up!”

  Ms. Skelter’s eyes pop with rage, “Mizz Angerman! You will not take that tone with me!”

  I backpedal, “I meant in a good way! Like, shut up because that’s awesome!”

  “I know what you meant, Mizz Angerman.” She’s calmer now. “But I will not have you slaughter the English language with such utter disregard. Say what you mean and mean what you say.”

  Pick your battles, I hear Rob say.

  I sigh, “Okay, I get it.”

  “Now try again.”

  Apparently, English class is in session. “Erm, no way?”

  Ms. Skelter frowns a warning.

  I cringe, “No, that doesn’t make sense. Yes way? Erm, no. That’s great.” I smile. “Gratis is great.”

  “Much better,” Ms. Skelter says, folding her hands together.

  A young woman walks out of the back.

  Ms. Skelter greets her, “There you are, Luna.”

  “Hey,” Luna says shyly. She’s hispanic and wears a basic black stylist’s uniform that has the Castle Hill Academy crest high on the breast. Her lustrous black hair is back in a basic chignon and her makeup is minimal. It’s impossible to get a sense of who she is from that, but she’s beautiful. A natural beauty, unlike the Silicones. I wonder if we could be friends? At the rate my day is going, I could use every friend I can find.

  Ms. Skelter says, “Luna, I’d like to have you tend to Mizz Angerman’s hair, if you please.”

  “Sure,” Luna nods.

  I sit in the chair.

  Luna wraps the cutting cape around my neck and says, “What would you like?

  I look at myself in the mirror, turning from side to side as I say, “I was thinking we put up my mohawk? Fan it or spike it? You might need egg whites to do the spikes right, or we can just fan it with hairspray, I guess. Whatever works. What do you think?”

  Luna offers an impish grin, “I say we fan it.”

  Ms. Skelter laughs, “No, I’m afraid we’ll have to shave it. Luna, get your razor.”

  “What?!” I blurt. “No! You can’t shave my mohawk! It’s my hair!”

  “It is in direct violation of the student code, Mizz Angerman.” She walks over to Luna’s station table and picks up an electric razor. When she flips it on, it buzzes like a hornet’s nest aimed at my heart.

  “No! Just no! I already gave you all my jeeeewelry! I’m keeping my hair!”

  Ms. Skelter’s lips purse into an alligator handbag, “Would you prefer I have Mr. Ralston return you to the penitentiary?”

  I’m not going through this again, but I glare at her for a moment before growling, “Fine! I’ll do it myself!” I stand up and yank the razor out of her hand and hastily shave my head. Even though it’s an electric, I manage to nick my scalp in several places, I’m so angry. My pink mohawk falls off in limp locks that flutter to the floor. I don’t even bother with the quarter-inch of stubble growing out already, just leave the bleeding bald streak running down the middle of my head. I turn to Ms. Skelter and bark, “There! You happy now?!”

  “The sides.”

  “What?!”

  “Do the sides.” Her eyes say, or else jail.

  “Fine!” I finish the sides, leaving scattered patches, and slap the razor into Ms. Skelter’s waiting hand.

  She smiles like a skeleton. “Much better.”

  Is she serious? I look like my head lost a fight with a lawn mower.

  Total bitch.

  Luna’s face says, “Sorry” in the nicest way possible.

  I roll my eyes to say it isn’t her fault. I’m ready to storm out of there.

  “Come along,” Ms. Skelter says as she heads out the door.

  I dig into my backpack and peel a twenty from my stack of cash and hand it to Luna for a tip.

  “What’s this for?” Luna asks. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “For the trouble,” I smirk. “Take it.”

  “We can’t accept tips.”

  I see that Ms. Skelter has disappeared around the corner and can’t see me and Luna. “Nobody’ll know,” I whisper.

  Luna shakes her head and mutters, “Cameras.”

  I frown. Rob said the same thing about the parking garage. It’s ridiculous. What’s wrong with a tip? “Are you sure?”

  Luna shakes her head, “I can’t. I don’t want to get in trouble. Sorry. It’s the rules.”

  “Screw the rules,” I sigh but put the money away. It’s yet another sign this place isn’t as innocent as it seems, that it’s far more sinister beneath the surface, but I won’t put the pieces together until much later on. “Next time you need coffee or whatever, it’s on me.”

  Luna smiles at that, “Thanks.”

  “It’s a date,” I grin.

  “Mizz Angerman!” Ms. Skelter barks behind me so loud I jump. “I don’t have all day! Neither do you!”

  I groan for Luna’s benefit before heading out the French doors.

  <(—)>

  “I’m not wearing that,” I laugh.

  “We can’t have you walking around stinking of coffee, young lady,” Ms. Skelter says, turning up her nose.

  The coffee Eliza-bitch threw at me dried already, but you can’t miss the smell. I’m a walking Starbucks, which actually isn’t so bad.

  Ms. Skelter and I are several buildings away from the salon, now standing inside the Castle Hill Boutique. It’s like a tiny dress shop with two headless mannequins wearing academy uniforms. One male, one female. I have to say, the female uniform looks like the less slutty and less expensive version of what I saw Eliza-bitch and her friends wearing. The one on the mannequin is nicer than anything I’ve ever owned, but not as nice as the ones the Silicones have. And that’s why I won’t wear it. I don’t want to be a lesser version of them. No, I don’t want to be any version of them.

  Ms. Skelter says, “While I do appreciate your spirit, Mizz Angerman, I do not appreciate your lack of school spirit. This uniform has been worn by great young women for generations, women who went on to have historical significance. If you desire to join their ranks, you must wear their uniform.”

  I say, “The only thing I want to do is avoid prison time.”

  “Then wear the uniform, Mizz Angerman. It’s as simple as that.”

  I sigh and feel the pleated plaid burgundy skirt. “It is sort of punk rock. Can I thrash it and attach a bunch of safety pins?”

  “You may not.”

  “What if I tear it by accident?”

  “It will be replaced immediately and the fee deducted from your stipend.”

  “What’s that?”

  “As a work-study student, you will receive a bi-weekly stipend to cover expenses such as these. Your first uniform and accessories are paid for courtesy of the academy. Replacements are not. Don’t waste your stipend on a frivolous fashion statement.”

  “Fine.”

  Barbara, the middle-aged woman who works in the boutique, picks out clothes from the shelves and racks, measuring me by eye. She hands me a gray plaid skirt and a darker charcoal gray jacket, not the burgundy plaid skirt and navy jacket I see on the mannequin. I remember the Silicones were wearing burgundy plaid and navy too.

  I say, “How come I get gray?”

  Ms. Skelter says, “Bur
gundy and navy are reserved for tuition students. Gray is for work-study students.”

  “Can’t I wear orange?” I smirk. I’m thinking of prison jumpsuits: orange, gray, take your pick. I’m surprised Skelter doesn’t make me wear black and white stripes.

  Ms. Skelter glares, “I find your sense of humor entirely lacking, Mizz Angerman.”

  I wasn’t trying to make her laugh. It’s bad enough I can’t dress punk rock. Now I have to announce to the other kids I almost went to jail and I’m working off my debt to the academy by wearing gray? Welcome to serfdom, I guess.

  Ten minutes later, I walk out of the dressing room wearing the academy uniform, which fits perfectly, thanks to Barbara. Except for the gray scarf, which I hold at my side. I’m not wearing a scarf. It’s too hot.

  Ms. Skelter says, “Do you need assistance with your pussybow?”

  “My what?” I snicker.

  She motions at the scarf in my hand. “Your pussybow. I’ll help you with it.” Before I can protest, Ms. Skelter takes my scarf, wraps it around my neck (she’s taller than I am even without her stilettos), and ties it expertly around my neck in a flouncy bow.

  It’s stifling. I tug at it. “Can’t I wear it untied? Elizabeth and her friends weren’t wearing theirs tied.” They also had their button-down blouses half open showing their bras and boob jobs.

  “Mizz Angerman,” Skelter warns, her eyes sharp. “If it was good enough for the late, great Coco Chanel to wear her pussybow properly tied, it’s good enough for you.”

  “Fine,” I sigh. “I’ll wear your stupid pussybow!”

  “I think it’s rather smart,” Ms. Skelter grins, straightening it and fluffing it. She smiles, “Much better. Now you look the lady.” She turns me to face a full length mirror.

  Except for my bald head, she’s right. I’ve never looked this feminine, unless you count the princess dresses I wore as a little girl, but that was forever ago. Even the cheesy knee-high white stockings aren’t terrible. They didn’t give me lingerie and garters like the Silicones have, but these stockings work with the new low-heeled black shoes Barbara gave me. Now that I see the gray skirt and jacket on me, I actually like it.