Chapter 3
Biba
The dining room was spartan but clean. To me, it looked more like a military mess hall than an exclusive boarding school dining area, but what did I know? It was my first boarding school.
I had that awful new kid in school feeling when I entered. I looked around for Sol. Even if I weren’t supposed to “fraternize” with the boys, it didn’t mean I couldn’t try to find him and give him a little eye-flutter. No dice, though. The room was packed, and most of the guys had their heads down, gnashing away at their breakfast like it was the last meal they’d ever eat.
Not knowing where else to go in the maelstrom of humanity, I plonked my tray at the nearest free seat at a table in the corner. Immediately after choosing my table, I sighted Buffy waving at me from across the room. Her table was full—full of cute, rich-looking girls nattering away spiritedly.
That was when I noticed twins sitting at her table. Physically, they looked identical, but their dress was individual.
One of them was in an almost puritanical get-up: black turtleneck, muted tartan skirt, hair pulled back tightly in a single sandy-blond ponytail. The other was … well, I hate to say slutty. But I wasn’t sure there was a nicer word for it. Her skintight white shirt was unbuttoned to the fullest swell of her cartoonish cleavage. Her maroon skirt cut off just below her cooch. It was a 50/50 shot whether she was wearing underwear. This was probably some kind of rebellion at their mother for dressing them alike as mothers often do with twins.
Buffy was facing them and smiling at all the right junctures, but her eyes were on me. I could tell she felt put-upon, listening to their intense two-sided monologue. The girls were most likely the Erin and Poppy Buffy had mentioned. Of course! That was what she was trying to let me know by looking at them and then at me. I wanted to dislike them on sight because of their oblivious, self-important manners.
On the flight over, though, I’d made up my mind to try to be friends with everyone. For one thing, I was raised to try, hard as it sometimes was, to find the good in people. My experience was that even the most vapid, caustic, or unthinking person had something good about them.
Also, I suspected many of these students came from families who were connected, either by business or distant bloodlines, to people I should know. My time there would go easier if I made friends. Besides, maybe I could find someone to put a good word in for me at Harvard. You never knew.
I thought of Dad and knew if he were there with me at that moment, he'd nudge me and tell me to make friends with the girls at my table. I’d argue that you’re judged by the company you keep, and he’d say you never knew what was on the inside.
He would have won. He always did.
That was why he had so many friends at the funeral.
But I’d already made my seating choice, so if I were going to introduce myself to Stormcloud Academy, it would need to start at the table I’d selected. Poppy and Erin could wait for lunch.
Looking at my table mates, one who topped the scales at 300 lbs. easily and another who had a complexion that looked like the surface of the moon—I realized I was sitting at what we used to call the loser’s table. I never imagined myself in that category, but I was probably the poorest girl there, and that made me an untouchable as far as they were concerned.
“Hi, I’m Biba,” I said in a cheery voice directed at my tablemates.
They looked at one another and then back at their plates.
I thought I’d try again. “What year are you both? I’m new, just a freshman. Arrived last night.”
The heavy girl slammed down her fork. “We only have so much time to eat. I don’t talk with my mouth full. I’ll give you one guess which one I’d rather do.” Her look was defiant.
“Yes, of course. Sorry about that. Well, enjoy your meal… meals.”
The one with a bad complexion spoke up next. “You think just because I’m stuck at the table with her,” she motioned with her chin, “that all I do is eat? No, I won’t talk to you because you’re probably talking to me on a dare—to get into some club or something.”
My hand shot out toward her. “Oh, no, no. Nothing like that. I’m just…”
“Beat it!”
Well, that went well.
I felt like both girls probably had some deep-seated emotional scars, but psychology wasn’t my field. In fact, I hadn’t picked one yet.
My first year would all be required classes, and they didn’t resemble those of any American college I could imagine: “Economics and Foreign Currency,” “The Lineage of Great Leaders,” “Investing in Diamonds and Other Precious Metals,” “French Cooking” and then there was, “History of the Rothschilds.” For pleasure, we were supposed to read War and Peace. It should be a breeze, cough, cough.