by Sarah Mello
Westcott High
SARAH MELLO
_
I dedicate this book to my twelfth-grade
English teacher, Mrs. Verrone, for telling me
I’m a writer. Maybe you were right.
Copyright © 2019 by Sarah Mello
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at [email protected].
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First Printing, 2019
United States of America
Author: Sarah Mello
Editor: Andrea Reimers
Book Cover & Interior Design: Olivia Heyward
www.westcotthigh.com
CONTENTS
1
He’s Back
I’m going to tell you a story. I know—such a cliché, recurrent one-liner no longer appeals to the masses. But there are three things that do.
One, a story about love. Because whether you’ve fallen in love, or have recently fallen out, one truth prevails—love is the unsurpassable act of will that everyone aspires to have, and we will do anything not to lose the feeling it gives us.
Two, a story about tragedy—quite possibly the most bittersweet story. It’s the one thing we try to avoid—because no one likes being the tragic kid—but it’s inadvertently who we all become at some point in our lives. That’s the bitter part. The sweet part is knowing you won’t stay that way—if you’re lucky anyway.
And number three, the most alluring one of all, a story about friendship, and the lengths we are willing to go for those most important to us. I guess that’s where my story began.
Tucked away in a secluded, sinister town in the suburbs of California is one of the nation’s most prestigious private schools: Westcott High. I only wish I were being dramatic when I liken the surrounding town to an eerie, evil playground—but underneath the Botox and Teslas lay a bag full of scandals, secrets, and cover-ups. And it all started with one event—one that would leave behind a shoddy legacy across three states.
The Crescent Closedown. Years ago, the esteemed Westcott High didn’t stand alone. It was one of three top private schools in a powerful union—the AWB Crescent. If you connected the dots on a map, the outline of the schools resembled a crescent moon. On one end, you had the Archwick Academy in Oregon. On the other—Bella View Day School in Arizona. And the big school in the middle—in California—was Westcott High. With cutthroat curriculums, competitive fine-arts departments, and elite athletic programs, students at these schools were either extremely intelligent or talented—or both.
Typical kids spent their high school careers attempting to get into a decent college. But AWB Crescent students weren’t typical. Every student in the Crescent was there for one reason: acceptance into an Ivy League school.
There was no other option.
Archwick, Bella View, and Westcott were feeder schools pumping out the best and brightest for Ivy Leagues. You can imagine the astronomical pressure in those hallways, especially given the amount of competition around every corner. At those schools, your means to success boiled down to one thing: what you were willing to do to get to the top.
But one day, toward the end of my freshman year, a scandal occurred, and it shook the Crescent to its core. Archwick and Bella View closed, forcing hundreds of angry students into subpar schools. The true cause for the shutdowns was the Crescent’s best kept secret, though everyone suspected that pushy wealthy parents facing full waiting lists had something to do with it.
Only one Crescent school survived the scandal—my school, Westcott High.
In an effort to distance itself from the Crescent’s corruption, WH was determined to do things differently. The administration would not stack the school with the state’s wealthiest kids or overlook what the less fortunate had to offer—diversity. The new Westcott High was about fairness. So, the following school year, as a goodwill gesture to the community, the principal presented an opportunity to kids who wouldn't normally afford a school such as Westcott.
The WH Lottery.
Eighty percent of the school was made up of students whose parents paid steep tuition. Twenty percent was opened only to low-income families, and applications were tossed into a lottery pool once the applicants passed the entrance exam. Those lucky enough to be chosen would enjoy a tuition-free ride at the nation’s most elite private school. (Well, free to them. Westcott raised tuition to cover the twenty percent.) Nonetheless, the old and the new would climb their way to the top. Together, they would start a new era—one based on academic equality.
That was, of course, until the student body created a division based on color—and I'm not talking about race.
Cobalts and Violets—aka blues and purples. The eighty percent, those fortunate enough to reside in the distinguished hillside neighborhoods of Westcott, called themselves the Violets, to be known as royalty in the halls of WH. One of the seniors pointed out that you can’t get Violet without mixing in a little blue. Just about twenty percent. Hence, the Cobalts, who lived in the valleys, the less distinguished part of town. Everyone claimed it was just an innocent name game, but over the course of my sophomore year, it became an adopted truth of Westcott; the Violets were the favored students from influential wealthy families in the community, and the Cobalts were there by the luck of the draw.
But not all Violets were the same.
Lana Carter. To understand me, you must first understand my sister. And everything that happened to her, and all the things that didn’t.
“How was your first day without me? Is being a junior everything you thought it would be?” Lana’s sarcasm poured through my cell-phone speaker.
I grabbed my keys out of my book bag as I walked down the sidewalk toward my car. “Apparently, managing my expectations early on to avoid disappointment was in fact a good idea,” I said, my eyes tracing the dark red brick that made up the school. “And where are you? It sounds like you’re in a tunnel.”
“That would be my luxury shuttle service. Mom was not lying about the infamous subway smell, by the way. It’s a real thing.”
I unlocked my car door with my key. “How lavish.”
Lana was a Violet. She had planned to study biochemistry, specifically at Columbia University. That was, of course, until she met our temporary history teacher. Mr. Hill, a tall, young, and incredibly dapper substitute teacher, was filling in for Mrs. Davenport while she was out of the country for five months. Every girl in the school took notice of his charm—Lana especially. Sooner than later, the news broke that she and the sub were caught in a compromising situation out in parking lot B, and it spread around Westcott like a wildfire.
“And let me guess, you’re currently walking through parking lot A?” The city commotion competed with Lana’s voice.
“How’d you know?”
“Well, parking lot C is reserved for overflow, and I hear parking lot B is reserved for harlots like me. You fit the bid for neither of the two.”
I opened my car door and sunk into the driver-side seat, the faithful California sun beating through the windshield.
“If only there were a parking lot reserved for the younger sisters of said harlots,” I said.
“That s
ounds like a request for the school board,” she replied. “A genius one.”
Once the scandal made its way through the school, Lana was blacklisted for months. Even I, a sophomore at the time, was afraid to align myself with her. But I never quite understood why Lana was demonized the way she was, knowing she likely wasn’t the only girl having relations with Mr. Hill. She was, however, the only one who got caught.
Allegedly, Cliff Reynolds, also a Violet and inarguably the most popular guy at Westcott High, was the snitch. Purples aren’t supposed to rat on purples, so he tried hard to convince everyone a random bystander must have caught the two kissing in Mr. Hill’s car and then leaked a video to the entire student body. But everyone knew he couldn’t have been innocent.
“So,” Lana said, “did you see him today?”
I looked through my window. Cliff and a group of block-shouldered guys were strolling toward the football field, casually tossing a football around on their way. Cliff’s blond hair, swept perfectly to one side, almost bounced as he walked—and his bright smile was captivating. In a town with copious amounts of button-up shirts and quintessential wealthy teenagers, Cliff Reynolds was the poster child.
“No, I didn’t see him,” I said. Cliff’s condescending smile hit my windshield like a rock. “Not today.”
Nobody understood why Lana had started dating Cliff, a sophomore at the time, the beginning of her senior year. Although attractive and well respected, Cliff was as shallow as it came. Perhaps being Westcott’s star quarterback was to blame for his egotistical nature. I, however, believed his parents’ relentless pressure to succeed made much more sense. Being raised in a house with no siblings—and more awards than family photos on the walls—would suck the human out of anyone.
“I’m assuming he hasn’t admitted to leaking the video?” Lana asked.
I started my car, breaking eye contact with Cliff. “Not exactly.”
After Lana’s reputation was nearly destroyed, we all assumed that her dream of attending Columbia was slowly floating away in the hollow clouds of unclaimed destiny. But then, one day out of the purple—it all just mysteriously went away. Much like many scandals in this town. Mr. Hill was released, the rumors were shut down by the principal when they claimed the girl in the video was none other than Mr. Hill’s girlfriend, and Lana received an acceptance letter from Columbia. But much to everyone’s surprise—Lana declined. After graduation, she cashed in on an internship at a modeling agency in New York and hightailed it out of town faster than you could say congratulations.
No one understood why.
“Cliff’s silence doesn’t surprise me,” Lana said. “Admitting he’s the rat would be admitting he has blue blood running through those ice-cold veins of his.”
“Well, Cliff is all purple, if nothing else.”
“If nothing else,” Lana said. “I like that one. It sort of indirectly says it all.”
“Agreed. It’s the best way to end a sentence if you ask me.” I mindlessly ran my fingers through the holes in my jeans, staring at my chipped nail polish hanging on by a thread. “Why do you ask anyways? Have you talked to Cliff?” I backed out of my parking spot and began my long drive toward the main road. The rows of luxury vehicles, each looking more ostentatious than the last, acted as walls.
“I think Cliff stopped calling when he realized his arm candy didn’t go Ivy League,” Lana replied.
Shortly after Lana accepted the internship, she and Cliff broke up. No one knew the real reason for the split, or who to believe. Cliff claimed Lana ended the relationship because she was leaving. Lana swore he dumped her because she was a cheater who didn’t go to an ILS. But I had my doubts. Because despite Cliff’s obvious personality flaws, he loved Lana. Loving my sister was perhaps the only good thing I had known him to do. Well, one out of two. That’s for later.
“Which was so selfish of you not to consider how that would make him look,” I said.
“Beyond.” Lana’s voice was filled with sarcasm. “He’s incredibly disadvantaged.”
A smile began forming on my face as I gazed out my window and tried to imagine Lana’s new life—a life that was worlds away from Westcott.
Sometimes, on my weakest days, I envied Lana. Some days, I wished I had the ability to be unapologetically me—regardless of what others thought. But the subversive rebel look suited Lana far better than a reserved journaler like myself.
Writing was my one true passion in that maniacal world. I’d written more unpublished novels than I could count. With my writing, I could lose myself in a world I controlled—and at least temporarily escape from WH’s cretinous status rules.
Sometimes I wondered if, given the opportunity, I wouldn’t happily trade places with one of my fictional characters—the ones living in a fictional town. A town that was nothing like Westcott. One with greener grass. But that’s the tricky thing about acquiring the unknown—sometimes the grass isn’t greener on the other side. Sometimes it’s only greener where you water it. And sometimes, if not most times in a town like Westcott, it was neither.
“Hey, promise me you’ll try to have some fun this year,” said Lana. “Put down your journals and put yourself out there.”
“I’m out there,” I replied. But my wavering voice gave me away.
I’d be lying if I said my older sister’s shadow hadn’t obstructed me from carving out my own legacy at Westcott. After all, everyone knew the story of Lana Carter—Sonny Carter’s older sister.
“Sitting upstairs and writing about the things you’re borderline desperate for doesn’t exactly count,” Lana continued. “I’ve read your writing. It’s incredible, Sonny. Open yourself up to the possibility of finding those things.”
I grasped the steering wheel as our conversation came to a grinding halt. The silence was deafening, and obvious. How could I tell Lana that no matter what I did, people only saw her—as if I were wearing her scarlet letter down every Westcott hallway? I was living the story she wrote—not mine.
I cleared my throat. “I just need to focus on my academics right now, Lana. My future is depending on it. And by the way, I don’t recall giving you permission to read my journals.”
“I’ve been reading them since ninth grade.”
“Perfect,” I mumbled as I approached the end of the winding street, which led to the highway.
“Do we have a deal?” Lana asked. “You know I hate asking you to make deals with me, but desperate times . . .”
As I was contemplating, a very recognizable burnt-orange Mustang slowly rolled into the parking lot, the car’s booming bass vibrating the freshly cut grass. Its tinted windows gave shield to the infamous driver, but I knew exactly who was behind the wheel. In that moment, everything became real. And everything stood to change.
I slammed on my breaks. “No way . . .”
“What was that?” Lana asked.
I gradually turned my head around, following the car with my eyes as it cruised toward the front of the school. The sparkling silver rims nearly blinded the eyes of the onlookers, mine included.
“Hello?” Panic rose in Lana’s voice. “Is everything okay?”
I turned back around and placed my head down, my eyes roaming the car for any sign of clarity.
“Sonny? What’s going on?”
“It’s JC.” I pushed my foot down on the gas pedal. “He’s back.”
And so it began. I didn’t know it at the time, but my junior year was soon to become a production that would make the Lana Carter story seem like a blurb in yesterday’s Westcott newspaper.
2
A Simple smile
My mother once told me that a simple smile means more than the strongest of handshakes. And I suppose there’s some truth to that. Anyone can shake your hand and all the while be repelled by your existence. But will anyone really smile at you if something inside of them isn’t somewhat happy to see you? A more damning question: Is anyone ever really happy to see you? I have often wondered: When I grinned at
my classmates in Westcott’s halls, did that make their day any different than if I had simply passed them by? Is something as minuscule as a smile truly capable of shaping the next twenty-four hours of someone’s life? Perhaps the better question is this: Why is something so small capable of making or breaking us in the first place?
“You’re awfully cheerful this morning. I’m guessing you didn’t hear the newest Tuesday-morning tidings?” Winston leaned against the long row of blue lockers, then ran his fingers through his dirty blond hair.
Winston Banks—a Cobalt. A master pianist. My best friend. Everyone thought he was a bit quirky—but I knew he was. I saw an opportunity to befriend him sophomore year when a group of guys were antagonizing him in the courtyard about his scarf. It was his first year at Westcott, and I was determined to give him a better welcome than that. I didn’t know it at the time, because we rarely ever do, but dropping anchor next to him that day would turn out to be the best decision I could have ever made. His neck accessory pulled me in; his sarcasm sealed the deal. We’ve been exchanging witty one-liners ever since.
“And why do you look like you’re wearing the national flag of Sierra Leone?” Winston’s eyes expressed disapproval as he looked down at my sweater.
“That’s oddly specific.” I rummaged through my locker, my eyes traveling aimlessly down the hall. The long, narrow room was filled with a combination of optimism and dread—the first-week-of-school kind of combo.
Polished Violets in white Westcott hoodies passed by me at rapid speed, pairing nicely with the polished white floor and white brick walls.
“You know, I’d never know you’re a Violet just by looking at you,” Winston said.
“Thank you.”
“Not a compliment.”
“Sort of a compliment.” I closed my locker. “You do know I refuse to let a color game dictate my wardrobe choices, right?”
“Which is so easy for a Violet to say. If you were a Cobalt like me, you would appreciate the status.”
