Chapter 1
I hurried up the steps at the front of my school, and halfway up, I nearly tripped, struggling to regain my balance. “Shit,” I muttered. The steps were slippery from the rain, which had drenched me during the short walk from the bus stop to the school entrance. My hair and coat were soaked.
My bad luck continued when I reached the doors—they were already closed, a clear sign that I was late for class. I had to muster all my strength to pull one of the heavy doors open. They were incredibly cumbersome and certainly not helping me get to class on time. I never understood why the school kept these old doors; they were more trouble and expense to maintain than they were worth.
Once I finally managed to open the door, I didn’t hesitate—I ran through the hallways of my creepy gothic school. Built ages ago, it still retained its Victorian Gothic character. There were rumors that ghosts of former students haunted the place.
As I rounded the last corner, I was pleasantly surprised by the sight in front of me. My entire class was still waiting in the hallway for the teacher. A sigh of relief escaped me as I slowed my pace. A few people turned to look when I arrived, including my closest friend, Sarah.
She smiled and said, “You’re late.” There was a slight hint of disapproval in her voice, but it was mixed with a heavy dose of warm friendliness.
“And once again, you’re stating the obvious,” I teased back. “But this time it wasn’t my fault—it was my mom’s,” I tried to defend myself.
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Trust me, this time it was her fault,” I grumbled. “She told me to change my clothes because they weren’t ‘appropriate.’ I disagreed, and an argument started,” I said, feeling my irritation rising again. My mother was uptight and a true micromanager, always concerned with upholding the family’s image. This led to many arguments at home, and I was often at the center of them.
“That I do believe,” Sarah chuckled.
“Anyway, what’s with all the fancy outfits—yours included?” I asked, noticing Sarah’s dark red pantsuit paired with a matching blouse, golden jewelry, and black loafers.
“What do you mean? It’s testing week. Don’t you remember?” My eyes widened. I had been so dreading this Monday, when our report cards would be handed out, that I had completely forgotten it was testing week.
I scratched the back of my neck. “Of course, I just forgot because I was late.” Before Sarah could question me about my worried expression, Mrs. Watson, our homeroom teacher, arrived in a hurry.
“I’m sorry, everyone! Traffic was crazy this morning, but please, come in, come in! Sit down so we can start quickly. The people for your testing will be here soon.” We all shuffled into the classroom, and as we were gathering, I overheard one guy whisper, “Dude, I told you. Mrs. Watson is definitely a sub. No dom gets late this often.”
It was bold for the guy—Dontae, I think his name was—to say something like that out loud. As students, we weren’t allowed to guess, speculate, or try to figure out our teachers’ classifications. This was a rule at many schools, as they feared it would affect how students behaved toward their teachers.
Sarah and I sat together in the back, catching up about our weekends when Flynn, an annoying classmate, made an unnecessary comment to Sarah. He was a bully, but not a popular one, so his influence was non-existent. Still, he excelled at being irritating.
“Where are you going, ma’am? Off to your twenty-fifth job interview?” He laughed loudly, as if he had just made the funniest joke ever. Sarah ignored him, but he kept making remarks.
I turned to him and said slowly and quietly, “Flynn, why don’t you do yourself—and the rest of us—a favor and shut the fuck up?”
“So, you let your child speak for you now?” Flynn sneered at Sarah.
“Excuse me?” I asked, my voice low and threatening.
He laughed. “You look like a toddler in that dress.”
I stood up, leaning on my desk with my hands, my gaze sharp. “Say that one more time—”
“You look like a big baby next to that old lady!”
Without thinking, I stepped forward, ready to smack him. The fury from this morning, after my mother also found my outfit inappropriate, surged back with a vengeance.
But before I could do anything, Keaton placed a hand on my shoulder, pushing me back down into my chair. “Flynn,” he began calmly, “I suggest you keep your mouth shut as Ariadne asked—though not so kindly.” That was a jab at me, but I didn’t care. Keaton was one of my friends, and besides, his dominant traits had emerged early in his teenage years, so we all knew he couldn’t help himself in situations like this. “I think you should be more concerned about yourself. I heard your parents want you to go to Oxford, but you and I both know your grades are anything but good.”
Flynn gulped and turned to face the front. Keaton winked at us and sat back down as well. The tension eased as Mrs. Watson clapped her hands, trying to get everyone’s attention.
“All right, everyone, settle down, please. I’ll hand out your report cards now, and then I’ll quickly go over what’s coming up this week.” While she was busy handing out the report cards, I turned to Sarah.
“Does this dress really make me look like a child? I thought it looked mature,” I asked, my insecurity bubbling up again. I looked down at my black velvet dungarees dress, paired with a neat light blue blouse, black tights, and loafers.
“Of course not, I think it suits you. But…”
“But what?” I asked, sensing hesitation.
Sarah gave me a comforting smile. “It does come off as somewhat innocent.”
“Oh,” I muttered, my lips thinning as I looked away.
“Hey,” Sarah said, placing a hand on my arm, “there’s nothing wrong with innocent, and as long as you like it, that’s all that matters.” I nodded and let the topic drop. Sarah didn’t understand. Nobody did.
Within a few minutes, my report card was handed to me, and I didn’t dare open it. “Want me to do it?” Sarah offered. I shook my head. “I’m sure your grades will be great. You’re always studying.”
That was true—I did study all the time—but what wasn’t true was that my grades would be fine. I had lied to Sarah a few times about my real grades, and not just to her, but to many others as well.
I slightly opened the report card and peeked inside. What I saw wasn’t comforting at all. My grades were barely passing. “And?” I heard from my left.
“It’s fine,” I lied to Sarah. “Not as good as I hoped, but fine.”
“I told you so,” she winked.
My parents were going to kill me.
Just then, Mrs. Watson stood in front of the class again, asking for our attention. “Now, as you all know, this week is testing week. You’ll all find out your classification and what classes you’ll take in your final semester of high school. All seniors will be tested in alphabetical order, and because there are so many of you, not everyone can be tested on the same day. So today, the first group will start, and the last group will be tested on Thursday. On Friday, you’ll have orientation day, where you’ll learn about the meaning of your classification and what courses to take.”
A big sigh of relief escaped me. My last name was Ziegler, which meant I would be tested on Thursday, giving me three extra days to mentally prepare myself. I dreaded the test even more than getting my report card.
I came from a long line of prestigious, wealthy, and influential dominants, and to say I felt pressured was an understatement. Both my parents were famous dominants, as were their parents before them. It was unusual for dominants to marry each other, but in the higher circles of society, it was almost a given that you’d marry your eldest child to someone of the same classification and social class. This was done to keep at least one line of the family in the right circles.
Ever since I learned about human classifications, I’ve been terrified I wouldn’t meet the high standards expected of me—more terrified that I wouldn’t be a dominant. I had three older siblings growing up, and I was nothing like them. Still, I worked hard, hoping it would help me “become” a dominant, even though that’s not how it works.
“That sucks, don’t you think?” Sarah whispered.
I turned to her. “What?”
“Well, my last name starts with an A, and yours with a Z. We’ll have to wait a whole week before we can celebrate together.”
“Oh, yeah, sure.”
I wished these three days would be the longest days in history.
