The Dolce boys.
six
Harper Apple
It happens so fast. I don’t try to slow it down, though. I’m halfway afraid someone’s fucking with me, that I’ll get to Willow Heights and they’ll have no record of my enrollment. The following Monday, I’m walking up to the front doors of the most exclusive private school in the state, thinking surely I’m dreaming. The school motto stretches above the doors, some Latin shit I can’t even read.
What am I doing here?
I’ve never set foot in this school or even driven by, but I’ve heard stories about the kids who go here, criminals of a different caliber than the ones at Faulkner High. I’ve heard about the legendary parties where pure cocaine is the drug of choice instead of dime bags of schwag. I’ve seen the kind of delinquents who take pictures of hopeless girls performing desperate acts in the back of teachers’ cars.
What’s a place like that want with a girl like you?Mom asked, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth as she signed the transfer papers.Isn’t that a good school?
This isn’t the kind of place you want to look weak.
I walk in like I’m daring anyone to fuck with me, not making a scene or trying to draw attention but not hiding who I am, either. I march into the office, a quiet, carpeted reception area that looks nothing like the bustling office at FHS, always full of assholes arguing loudly about their tardies, detentions, and suspensions. Instead of dark blue plastic chairs with scarred edges sitting along the wall, this office has chairs with padding and wooden arms.
Everything in this entire school, from the marble-floored lobby to the dudes strutting by in khakis and buttoned shirts, says I don’t belong here. I try not to care, to let it roll off me. But I can’t help the anxiety nibbling at my nerves. I’m out of my element, and I hate that feeling.
The receptionist pushes a button and then tells me a student council member will meet me to show me around. I tell her I can figure it out, but she insists. A few minutes later, a big girl clomps in wearing a pair of combat boots with a plaid schoolgirl skirt, her curly red hair pulled up in a bun but already losing a few locks, like she can’t quite contain it in the style.
She’s everything I don’t expect from a Willow Heights chick, and to be honest, it puts me at ease a little. I thought this was one of those snooty schools where every girl was a perfect prima-donna, but maybe it’s more modern, one of the private schools that hides the snootiness behind an all-inclusive façade.
“Ready?” my guide asks, holding open the office door for me.
“You’re showing me around?”
“Yep,” she says, flashing me a smile. She waves to the receptionist before letting the door swing shut behind us. “What, you didn’t expect a fat girl to be the first face you saw at Willow Heights?”
I shrug. “Rich kids must come in all sizes, too. It was your clothes more than your size that threw me.”
“As long as it follows dress code—collared shirts and slacks for boys, skirts two inches above the knee or slacks for girls—you can wear anything you want. Oh, and jeans on Fridays, but no rips.”
There’s a lot more to the dress code than that, including no logos and even a list of acceptable patterns, but I can read that in the handbook.
“How’d you get stuck with this job?” I ask. “Detention?”
The girl stifles a giggle. “I’m on student council, and we’re in charge of showing the newbies around,” she explains as we head down the hall. “You’re lucky, really. You could do a lot worse than me. I’m Dixie, by the way. I’m a junior. What grade are you in?”
“Same,” I say. “And I really don’t need to be shown around. I’m sure you have something better to do, and this school is like tenth the size of Faulkner.”
“You’re from FHS?” she asks, pointing out my first class. “I went there—well, actually, I left after Middle, but I would have gone there. That school is so freaking big! You probably have like a million friends. Do you know Chase London?”
I roll my eyes. Of course she wants to know that. “I knowofhim,” I say. “But no, I don’t know him. We… Don’t move in the same circles.”
Chase is a football god at Faulkner, while I’m more the type to hang out under the bleachers and smoke a joint than cheer for the team.
“Oh, right,” Dixie says. “I bet you only know, like, a tiny fraction of the student body. I know everyone here. I’m a wealth of information. If you need anything, make sure you come find me, okay?”
“Sure,” I say, already knowing I won’t. I’m not here to make friends. I just want to get a report card, send off my resume, and sail out of this town. And hell, my first day is starting out a million times easier than I expected. This girl’s not a snob or a bitch. If everyone at WHPA is this chill, it’ll be smooth sailing all the way. If not… Fake it ‘til you make it.
Dixie points out my last class and flashes a smile. “Now let me show you the cafeteria, and we’ll be done. Think you’ll remember where everything is?”
“Not a problem,” I assure her.
“Okay, good,” she says. “Now, they just remodeled the café, and the food’s real good, and healthy, too. But it’s still a high school cafeteria, if you know what I mean.”
“Right,” I mutter. “Even rich kids have a pecking order. What’s it ranked by, how much your car costs?”