“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.
2
Chapter Two
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 whatever 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.”