by Henry, Max
“Lacey.” He rolls to his side, eyes sympathetic. “They won’t always invite us, you know? Christian’s father is already giving him trouble about associating with us. Libby’s parents have flat out banned her from seeing you, and after the way Richard behaved…”
“I’m not naïve, Colt. I know our old friendships are strained.” I glance down at my hands, disgusted to find I chipped a nail today. “But this isn’t our life.” I gesture to the house around us. “Maybe Dad can’t find a way back in, but perhaps we can.”
Colt pushes up onto his elbow. “What are you saying?”
“That we continue with our plans for the future. Who says I can’t be a good wife for the likes of Barrett?”
“Social status does,” he deadpans.
I smack him lightly on the arm. “I don’t see you resigning yourself to live here in the boondocks.”
He smiles. “Perhaps I merely milk what we have left while I can?”
“Colt,” I say, no trace of humour. “Richard kicked me out, not you. Why?”
He flops to his back again, dismissing me with a shrug. “I don’t know.”
Except, the way he stares at my ceiling, eyes glazed, says that he does know.
The real question is: why won’t he tell me?
^*^
Colt thankfully gives me space after our tense conversation, lounging outside in the dying afternoon sun while I scroll my social media.
I wouldn’t say I have a large group of friends back at Riverbourne Preparatory, but the ones I do mirror the type of wealth my family used to have. I pause, sighing as I close my eyes briefly and once more, let it all sink in. I’ve known money my entire life, and while I’d say that I now grasp the concept of needing to really work for what you have, I can’t adjust who I am to this new level of… well, what is it even? It’s hardly prosperity. It’s barely entitlement.
My father, who, a mere eighteen months ago earned a seven-figure salary from his company, now hauls hay for a cartage company. What assets he did manage to protect are all tied up in trust funds—untouchable for day-to-day expenses.
Five-figure tailored business suits gave way to standard-issue coveralls in the blink of an eye.
However, one look at my mother, and you’d never know that the Williams family underwent such a magnificent shift. In fact, I’m pretty sure that she’s in the city now, effectively burying her long neck in the sand. Father did say Colt and I took the news better than her.
“You look exhausted,” Colt drones, rousing me from my musings.
“Because I am.” I give him a wan smile and fix the ruffles of my skirt. I changed the instant we arrived home from school. Jeans are simply not my style. “Ingrid is organising something for the weekend, though. I might message her.”
“When you do, ask her if Arthur will join Libby or if the boys are up to something else.”
I narrow my eyes on Colt. “Why don’t you call and ask him yourself. I’m not your secretary.”
He grins, the malice in his eye unnerving. “You could have been.”
I scowl and flick out a foot to try and catch him where he stands. He backs away with a laugh and leaves me alone once more in our modest living room.
Had Dad’s business partners been honest men, then Colt would have been so right that it makes me feel literally nauseous to think about. My brother, at my father’s desk after he retired, ordering me around while I keep track of lunch dates and travel itineraries.
I’m made for so much more than that post-war rubbish.
With a flick of my thumb, I wake my gold iPhone and open my thread with Ingrid. Twenty minutes and more emojis than necessary later, I’ve planned our weekend schedule. I jot the essential details down in my notes app, take a screenshot, and forward it to Colt. His friend and Libby’s beau, Arthur, will most definitely be attending Ingrid’s get-together. Come Friday night, and it will almost be once more as though things never changed for us Williams kids. I say almost because one point on my itinerary sticks out like a sore thumb: Richard will also be there.
Against him, confidence will be crucial.
“Everyone, I would appreciate at least the minimal level of respect,” our teacher, Mrs Abbot, calls out. “This is a Biology lesson, not a group chat on Facebook.”
Several students slide their phones from their hands, yet interestingly enough, don’t put them away. I ensure mine is set to silent and face down; my textbook tucked between my arms where they rest on the long lab table.
“Lacey, isn’t it?” the girl beside me whispers.
I offer her a warm smile. “Yes, it is.”
She nods, her bright eyes dulling somewhat. “I thought you were that new rich kid, looking at your shoes.”
Any hope I’d held of possibly making an unbiased friend fizzles with the flame Mrs Abbot ignites on her Bunsen burner. I return my eyes front, super aware of the fine leather that encases my feet. Every point of contact feels like a boulder pressing against my flesh.
“Open to three forty-five. We’re doing the second exercise on the page today.”
I flick through my textbook, well aware that I have more than one set of eyes diverted my way and not toward the front of the class where they should be. I arrived early to the lesson, selecting a seat at the back of the rows believing that would be the safest option. If the other students are in front of me, then I don’t have to concern myself with what happens behind my back.
I was wrong. So wrong.
Five rows each side of the classroom, each table able to sit two, and the boys who ridiculed me at Farm Management yesterday quite obviously chose to sit at the bench parallel to mine. Johnson and Tuck. The two teenage gods. I mean, why wouldn’t they? Don’t the troublemakers always sit down the back? I should have picked the first row.
“You will need a beaker, tongs, and I have laid the materials out for you; one tray per pair,” Mrs Abbot calls out. “That’s right everyone. You are buddying up for this experiment.”
Deep breath, Lacey. If you change the first impression quick enough, you can reverse the damage. One of many little lessons I had drilled into me during my deportment classes.
Students rise from their stools to retrieve the necessary instruments. I notice that my new buddy doesn’t lift her head from the drawing she creates on the inside cover of her textbook. The prim and proper side of me clutches her pearls at such blatant disrespect of property. You’re not at Riverbourne now, Lacey. No, I’m not. Most definitely not.
“I’ll get what we need,” I offer as I rise from my seat.
The girl still doesn’t flinch. I wonder if perhaps she has a hearing impairment, but then that wouldn’t explain why she sits at the back if she needed to lip-read. With a shake of my head, I square my shoulders, hands clasped before me, and make my way over to the supply tables at the side of the classroom. Given that I’m pretty much the last to arrive, only my tray remains; one beaker beside it, and a set of tongs as required. I set the beaker on the tray for ease of carrying, and then reach for the tongs when a large, tanned hand slaps down over them.
“I’ll have these.”
I follow the sun-bronzed hand to its owner and discover that Johnson already has a pair in his other. “You’re only required to have one set of tongs,” I remind him.
He mimics me word for word in a silly voice. “Who cares? Tuck and I want one each.”
“But you don’t need one each.” I stare him down, jaw firm.
He regards me with the most breathtakingly vibrant green eyes. “I don’t think you need them at all, considering you shouldn’t be here.” He leans in close to whisper the final words, the earthy muskiness of his scent wrapping around me as tightly as his aversion toward me.
“And what about my lab buddy…” Ugh. I should have asked her name.
Johnson turns to look over his shoulder and chuckles. “Maggie? First off, that loser is nobody’s buddy, and secondly, she never does the work.” He snaps the tongs in my face. “So, I’ll defi
nitely take these.”
“Is there an issue?” Mrs Abbot calls from the front of the room, head raised to see over the rows of students who have settled into the exercise.
“No, Mrs Abbot” Johnson croons. I suck in a sharp breath at how vastly different his demeanour can be with the right person. “I was simply explaining to Lacey how things work here at Arcadia.”
Mrs Abbot smiles, gesturing for us to take our seats. “Thank you, Mr Davis. That is very chivalrous of you.”
Chivalrous, my arse. I silently scold myself for such a harsh statement, yet also smile at the humorous vision created in my mind of Johnson Davis doing his utmost to understand how a proper gentleman behaves.
The boys from Riverbourne would sweep the floor with him if he were to step into my world.
Well—what was my world.
I take my seat, swallow hard, and set the tray down before me. Sure enough, Maggie doesn’t pay me any mind as I complete the entire exercise for us using two pencils like chopsticks as my makeshift tongs.
The concoction fizzles in the beaker; the heat now turned off as I record our, my, findings. Maggie has taken things a step further by adding headphones to her ensemble, her red-streaked black hair bobbing as she moves her head to the beat.
“Careful.” The throaty, whispered word startles me. “Wouldn’t want to make a mistake on that pretty page now, would you?”
Pen poised for my next numeral, I swivel my head to the right and stare down the breathtaking Tuck. He’s rather large and intimidating, but in a strange way that speaks to the emerging woman inside of me. Tall and broad, his muscular frame promises safety and assurance.
I lick my lips and then rub them together, willing away the surge of desire that increases my pulse notably.
“Even if I did make a mistake, I’m sure I’d still get better marks than whatever you manage with that chicken scrawl.” I gesture to his messy worksheet with my chin.
He flicks naturally highlighted blond hair out of his eye with an arrogant jerk of his head and smiles. “How big is it, exactly?”
“How big is what?” I shouldn’t engage, but then I’m also not about to cower with these self-entitled jerks.
“The stick up your arse,” he leers, leaning back to sit straight on his stool once more.
I glance to the left of him, locking eyes with a grinning Johnson. These men are like a couple of hyenas toying with their prey. Or should I say, boys? Yes, boys. Men don’t act like this—much.
Mrs Abbot claps her hands twice. “All sheets to the front of the class. Time to pack away.”
I give the boys one last scowl and then proceed to assemble the items back on the tray to return to the side of class.
Maggie leans across slightly, eyeing the worksheet I’ve yet to complete, and lifts an eyebrow. “Cool. You finished it.”
All I can do is sigh. The last two questions are quite obviously empty. If she thinks that ninety per cent is good enough to get by on, then she has a rather mundane life ahead of her.
“Yes,” I snap, positively over the students at this school. “I finished it.”
I fill out the last two answers and then, in a moment of spite, scrub her name off the top. If Mrs Abbot asks, then she’ll receive the truth. I should get double credit for this. Thank God I have the party with the girls this weekend. I get the feeling I’ll need the respite.
Johnson and Tuck watch me while I walk through the rows to return the used equipment, the former leaning over to his friend to quite obviously pass judgment on me. I lift my chin high, remember my training, and affix a polite smile as I return to gather my belongings from beneath the lab table.
Maggie slides from her stool the second the bell tolls, out the door before most of the class. I carefully slide my textbook inside my satchel—unwilling to scuff the corners of the cover—and lift the strap over my shoulder.
A chill tickles the hairs on my arms.
Mrs Abbot has stepped into her adjoining office, leaving me alone with Johnson and Tuck.
“May I help you?” I sass. My mother would pinch me for such an attitude.
Johnson lifts himself to sit on the table, providing a better view around Tuck who casually leans one elbow on the timber top, still on his stool.
“Tuck and I were wondering,” Johnson starts, “what brings a snob like you to our school?”
My nostrils flare. “That’s none of your business.”
“See,” he continues as I turn to leave, “I think it is. Especially if you think your money can buy out generations of history in this region.”
“Buy out?” I turn with a frown. “What do you mean?”
“Going to pop up a few thousand condos on our farms?” Tuck asks. “Run a few kilometres of road between them all and then sell them off to your preppy friends for a premium because of the ‘rural outlook’?” he leers.
“You think we’re here to steamroll your land?” I say with a huff, one eyebrow raised. They can’t be serious. “What is this? The wild west?”
Tuck winks. “Can be if you want it to, little lady.”
My gaze drops to his shirtsleeves rolled to mid-forearm and showcasing the strength that resides in his robust build. Pair that with the loose tie at his neck, the top button of his shirt undone, and the fact his sleeves strain at the seams on his shoulders given his immense size, the guy emits a particular country feel—that’s for sure.
What’s not clear is why on earth I find that rather appealing.
I spin on my thousand-dollar heel and march away from them and toward fresh air. My flesh sears with anger at their words, or is that shame? Because as much as I’d love to prove the boys’ opinion of me wrong, doing so would only highlight how poor our family has become.
And that misconception is not an advantage I’m ready to give up yet.
“Oh, dear,” Colt says with a smile. “Something has ruffled your feathers, hasn’t it?”
I flop down at the cafeteria table beside him thankful Friday has come around quickly. The furniture in here is made from lacquered slabs of timber, smooth on the top but with their original rough exterior on the sides. I press my calves into the glossed bark for a distraction from my rage.
“The people here are so judgmental, don’t you think?”
Colt smiles, hands clamped on the edge of the tabletop while he leans back on his seat. “People are naturally critical of what they’re envious of.”
“Are they though?” I lean forward; hands folded neatly in my lap. Ugh. I shake them out, as unnatural as it feels. “Because they seem threatened by us, not intimidated as I’d hoped.”
His eyes spark to life. “Really?” Of course, he’d love the idea of that.
My brother takes after my mother’s family in that facet of his personality. Although Dad was fantastic at his corporate job, it’s my grandfather who’s the ruthless negotiator when it comes to lucrative contracts and hostile takeovers.
For some, the smell of blood appears to be as stimulating as coffee in the morning.
“How has your day been?” I ask. “I’ve hardly seen you. Our schedules are so different.”
Colt sighs, his head turning to the side so he can watch a leggy brunette cross the cafeteria floor. “Much the same as every other this week.” He flashes the girl a smile as she lines up to receive her order.
I note she then selects a seat as far from us as she can manage, which isn’t much of a feat given there aren’t but a handful of people in here. Come to think of it, the cafeteria has been devoid of students all week.
“Why do you think nobody eats here?” I eye his half-eaten Panini before him. “Do you think we should be wary of the food?”
His boots hit the floor with a thud when he leans forward in his seat again. “I don’t think so.” He chances a look around the room. “Perhaps this week’s menu isn’t of choice?”
“I think the menu stays mostly the same week to week.” I flick my gaze from the girl who just sat down, across to the group of
four that sit huddled over paperwork on the opposite side of the long hall.
The servery runs the full length of the wall opposite Colt and me, the entry door to our left. Large windows on the right provide a view of the rear quad. Light bounces off the mirror-like reflection pool between the cafeteria and the main hall across the stonework of the surrounding buildings.
This school could be magical if its students held the same beauty. Unfortunately, from what I’ve learned of them so far, the general populous is terribly ugly.
“Are you going to order,” Colt teases, “or simply stare out the windows all break?”
I offer him a smile and then smooth my shirt as I stand. “Of course.” I add with a wink, “Save my seat, would you?”
He scoffs as I round our table and cross the room toward the servery. Student orders are collected on a tab system and settled at the end of the week. If the prior week isn’t paid by Monday afternoon the following, then the account is set on hold. Perhaps that’s why nobody is in here? Although the students at Arcadia sure don’t seem to be the kind that would have too much trouble settling an account.
They may not drive flashy cars or wear the latest designer trends, but a lot of money moves through these dirt-dusted streets. Dad always told me the surest place to invest your money is property, and well, the families in this district have a lot of that.
I collect a steel tray from the stack to the left, my thumb tracing the ornate stamped corners as I lazily make my way down the chilled cabinets. After some deliberation, I decide to forgo the delicious looking quiche in favour of a more sensible salad and yoghurt to round the order out. I swear at times like these I can feel my mother’s words whisper against my ear, “Wide hips may be good for children, Lacey, but they won’t attract a man who has ambitions for anything more than that.”
The lady on the counter tallies up my order and then gives me the nod to leave. I lift the tray and turn to re-join Colt.
My elbow collects something hard and unforgiving.
Something notably human in nature.
“I’m sorry, I…” My eyes lift to find those of the person I inconvenienced, and then narrow when I discover Johnson close behind me.
