Her hazel-green eyes meet mine for the barest of seconds. “It’s just how it is.”
“Well, it’s weird.”
“You have no idea,” she says, and she suddenly comes to life, twisting in her seat and motioning me closer. “It’s basically hell.”
“How so?”
She seems to war within herself, looking up to the class to see if anyone else was paying attention. “You know how this town was founded?”
“No.”
“Well, okay.” She pulls out a notebook and starts scribbling. In a few seconds, a diagram appears with lines and names.
The teacher walks in, and the girl’s eyes glaze over. Something about him sets her off. She starts rapidly firing information so quickly and so quietly that I nearly cut myself in half leaning over the desk to hear her.
“Look, so the town is called Jameson. Basically they’re the founders. The Jamesons, you know, back in the 1800s. And then, one of the Jameson sons got together with a bunch of other sons of these families” – she points to the words written: Weis, Blackwater, Whitworth, Nikelson – “And they created the Jameson Automobile Corporation. You know, luxury cars. Like, for the ultra-rich. Now, though, only these three”– she points to Blackwater, Whitworth and Jameson– “are still in town. And they’ve founded this school, and their children think they’re God’s Gift to Humanity.”
“You’re tripping.”
She rips the piece of paper and hands it to me. “Don’t get on their bad side.”
She’s circled many names and called them “The Elites”. I almost want to snort – this is absurd! – but the serious look on her face makes me pause. I scan the list.
Emmett and Bernadette Jameson.
Vivian Blackwater.
Trey and Vincent Whitworth.
Understanding lights up inside me. Vivian Blackwater. No wonder she had such an ego complex last night – she’s got a fancy little name and a fancy little history. But my bet is on Bernadette being the skinny bitch who almost run me over.
Things start to piece together.
“And where is Jason in all of this?” I ask.
The girl frowns. “Jason?”
“The guy with his stick up his ass.”
Her lips wiggle wildly, as if she wants to smile but physically can’t. What is up with this girl? She grabs my paper and scribbles some more words on it, just as the teacher starts talking to the class. I hadn’t realized the tardy bell had rung.
“Satellite Elites – think of them as wingmen,” she says, then turns in her seat and ignores me.
I inspect the paper. More words. More names. My head is spinning. The girl next to me – I still don’t know her name – ignores me for the rest of class. I’m uneasy and on edge, and I can barely remember what the teacher has said. When the bell rings, I find Jason lounging outside the door, picking at his fingernails.
“That’s a bad habit,” I say, because I want to rile him. He’s one of those Satellite Elites, and while I don’t know what it means, I’m betting it means he’s easily riled up.
“Shut your whore mouth,” he says, “and follow me.”
“Wow, good one,” I say sarcastically.
But instead of getting angry, he smiles at me. And his smile is sinister, ominously spreading across his face.
Suddenly, understanding knocks me on the head. The weird phone call last night. Obviously these people have money at their disposal. Finding out my name and identity and contact information is probably easy when you have a tech army at your side.
The more I think on this, the more I realize I should probably delete my Facebook and Twitter accounts. I don’t use them, but if they can easily find out who I am, then they can probably hack into my accounts. Safety first... But my Instagram account – I can’t delete that. Probably should just change my password often.
“You’re a good little whore,” Jason says, dropping me off at my next class. “You kept quiet the whole way.”