I’ve always hated Wednesdays.
I’m pretty sure it stemmed from how in elementary school we would get progress reports and mine was always incredibly shitty. My parents never really went for the whole “the report card matters not this” tangent I would go on when they decided to ground me for the poor “progress” I appeared to be making. Eh. You win some, you lose some right?
To me, it’s about the results more than the process. Not to say I’m the overcome-obstacles-by-any-means-necessary type of gal, I just knew that if I smudged a quiz here, I could make it up with test there.
Where am I going with this?
Yeah, Wednesdays suck. Last Wednesday especially sucked. Now it’s like I’m in the middle of a dangerous and inaccurate reenactment of West Side Story combined with The Godfather and some other movie I can’t think of right now.
“Hey, Lu. Check out the new kid.”
I furrow my brows, sending my best friend Jane and odd look, “That sounds like the opening line of a shitty high school rom com book.”
Jane gave me a small smile and rolled her green ,blue eyes—they change color( as all white people say)—adjusting her recently-cut shoulder length blonde hair she chuckles, “You’re a riot. Just look.”
I allow my gaze to shift past the random faces littered about the cafeteria and zero in on a very average looking brown haired, brown eyed rich white kid who was simply trying to find a place to sit. It took me a second to realize why Jane was so enraptured by the scene, but when I noticed my face fell with exasperation. Unbeknownst to this new kid, some juice from his pineapple cup had spilt by Grant Monroe. As in any average and stupid high school—very much like my own obnoxiously rich and prestigious Sadebrook Academy—there was a sort of social hierarchy. Sadebrook’s is a little interesting, though. The most powerful people in this lovely boarding school are Student Council and the Executive Board. This seems apropos until you discover that the Council is composed entirely of rich, privileged kids whose parents donate the most to the school, and the E-Board is composed of the captains (who are also rich—except me) of the major athletic teams: Basketball, Football, Soccer, Baseball and Softball, and (somehow, don’t ask) Cheerleading—a boy and girl representing their respective teams (except Cheerleading). After that no other group is really that relevant to my life.
Except one. And they were relevant to everyone’s life. Sort of. I mean, you’re really just not supposed to fuck with those kids. They’re actually dangerous.
Rich and white, yes.
Their families smuggle drugs, do contract killings, are loan sharks, own shady, but popular night clubs. Anything potentially dangerous, they do it and make millions off of it.
Grant Monroe was one of them.
“Hey, kid. You just spilled some pineapple juice right in my path,” he sneered, his dirty blonde hair seeming to glisten beneath the cafeteria’s rich ass lighting fixtures.
New kid just turns around and begins apologizing, obviously sensing something was up due to sudden pin-drop-cliché silence the filled cafeteria just fell into. By this time the whole dangerous group of friends—or dgof as I fondly call them—stopped and were staring at this poor, poor, unfortunate boy. Grant sighed.
“What are you gonna do to make up for it?”
For spilling some damn juice, not even on him, but near him. Like…what.
This is why I hate rich white people.
Now don’t get me wrong.
I hate all rich people.
Of all races. Of all peoples. Of all ages.
Nothing fancy, just your everyday, run-of-the-mill, Robin Hood-esque disdain for the top one percent.
The cafeteria, along with, the fearful doe-eyed boy remain silent all in fear of what Monroe might say next.
“…Lick it up.”
Until some fucking weirdo bursts out laughing and then tries to muffle it as if the cafeteria wasn’t on the edge of their seats waiting for basically anything and everything to happen.
There. That weirdo.
Grant turns on his heel to look at the table where my cheerleaders and I are sitting. Fuck. Here we go.
“And just what’s so fucking funny Grey?”
I send him a sugary smile.
“I know you’re used to sitting in your throne whilst your servants carry you around all day, but surely you haven’t forgotten how to walk? I mean I know you aren’t the…brightest, but stepping over a small puddle is this much of a challenge for you? Really?”
Grant grinds his teeth and balls up his fists, making a b- line toward me.
And then something absolutely, positively catastrophic happens.
Someone grabs Grant by the shoulder and stops on his quest for my destruction.
And it’s none other than Mr. Monroe.
Mr. Monroe is Grant’s twenty-six year old brother and my AP Calculus teachers who doesn’t even know I exist. He is the most dangerous man in New fucking England. He is “only” chairman of Monroe and “Associates,” so he spends his ample free time volunteering as a teacher at this private school, of which he is also chairman of the board.
Now why did I say “only” and “Associates”? Because he inserted a dummy CEO that he completely controls, thus giving him complete control over all the ventures and enterprises Monroe and “Associates” dabble in—aka everything. And as for “associates”…What associates?
He had them killed. And the scariest rumor of all:
He killed his parents with his bare hands.
And I’m fucking with his brother.
Shit on me.
My eyes slowly drift upward to meet his gaze. His form fitting gray pants and crisp white Oxford hug his toned, lightly chiseled, and lithe 6’5 frame. His rich deep brown, messy slight curls bring out his beautiful icy blue eyes.
Which are currently looking as emotionless and apathetic as inhumanly possible.
I’m literally stunned by his beauty.
And, quite frankly, by soul crushing fear.
I, then, make the executive to do something stupid. I glance at Grant and then at Mr. Monroe and smirk condescendingly.
“Aw. How cute.”
I then round on my heel and walk back to my table, swiftly retrieving my belongings.
“Don’t forget, no practice today ladies.”
And I’m out of the cafeteria. Calmly, confidently, and with my heart racing a hundred miles an hour.
Give or take.