8
ASPEN
The days start to blend in this hell hole. The only reprieve is that I’ve somehow stayed off Quinton’s radar. I’ve managed to go an entire week without having a single run-in with him. Granted, I did skip PE class this morning, so I wouldn’t have to see him.
Between the fear of being caught by him and being alone and singled out everywhere I go, I’m a mess. Even the teachers seem to dislike me. I’m trapped in this place with nowhere else to go. Not to mention, I haven’t been able to reach my mom. Every time I try to Skype her, she’sbusy. All I want to do is vent to her about this place, not that she would care. She advocated the most for me to go here.
I shelve the pity party I’m setting up in my mind for later and gather up all my clothes in the laundry bag provided to me when I arrived. I have to go down to the lower level to drop my laundry off for cleaning. Apparently, the students here are too high class to operate a washer and dryer. I scoff at the nonsense and heft the bag over my shoulder.
Yeah, most of us grew up wealthy, but this is still a university. People should at least know how to do their own laundry.
My only clean clothes are what I’m wearing—a pair of sweats, a T-shirt, and an oversized sweatshirt. I’ve pushed off going downstairs to do laundry for so long that I literally have nothing else to wear. I generally procrastinate doing anything that means me walking through the dorms or anywhere else, for that matter.
I actually played with the idea of no longer attending classes altogether, thinking if I fail, they’ll surely send me back home. But what then? We lost most of our money when my dad was convicted. The only assets we got to keep were the house and my trust fund. I don’t even know how much this place costs to attend, but I doubt they will refund my tuition.
Wanting to get this over with quickly, I speed walk down the hall, hoping to pass people before they even realize it’s me. I succeed most of the way. Only a few shoulder bumps, insults, and dirty looks are hurled at me as I make my way downstairs.
Luckily, there is no line when I walk up to the desk. The maid who takes the laundry looks up from the book in her hand with a smile. That smile is immediately wiped off her face when she recognizes who I am.
They must have a fucking picture of me posted in the employee break room or something. How does every freaking person know me?
“I’m sorry, Miss. I can’t take your laundry,” she tells me, a sad frown on her lips. At least she isn’t actively mocking me. “I’m sorry,” she repeats, and I can tell her apology is real, which means it’s not her. Someone is telling her not to help me. As defeated as I feel, I’m not going to let it bother me. I know how to use a washer and dryer.
“I understand. Can you point me in the direction of a washer I can use?”
Her head lowers, and her shoulders sink. “Students are not allowed to use the washers.”
I’m so flabbergasted, I almost drop my bag. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t let you into the laundry room. It’s off-limits to students.”
“But you also can’t do my laundry?” I clarify, and she shakes her head. “So, how am I supposed to wash my clothes?”
She sighs and gives me a tiny shrug. I know it’s not her doing, but it’s hard not to let my anger out at the person in front of me.
“Thanks for nothing,” I sneer and storm off.
I basically run back to my room with the bag of clothes bouncing off my shoulder. My arm already hurts from holding it at an odd angle for so long, but I welcome the pain. I let it fuel my anger.
Swiping my key card, I shove open my room long enough to throw the bag inside, then slam the door back shut and head to the administration building.
By the time I make it to the headmaster’s office, my vigor is slowly diminishing, but I know I have to do this. I have to stand up for myself at some point. What better time than now?
“Can I help you?” the secretary at the front desk asks with a fake smile painted on her bright red lips.
“I need to talk to someone.”
“Someone?” she parrots back at me.
No, not someone, the man in control.
“I want to talk to Mr. Diavolo,” I say, keeping my voice strong.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes,” I answer before I change my mind.
“All right, dear.” She pushes some buttons on the phone and waves her hand toward the door beside her desk.