Jennifer
The last thing I needed was a pair of blue eyes looking at me like I was the only light in the world.
It made me uncomfortable. I wasn’t used to butterflies in my stomach or anywhere else; they signaled anxiety.
Heck, all I wanted was to survive math class and get back to my dorm, so I could work on new tattoo designs. The boy frowned as he looked me up and down, like I was a human aboard an alien spaceship.
Understandable, actually. This freaking place felt as unfamiliar as the Millenium Falcon. And him? He was from an entirely different world.
His clean-shaved face, the expensive clothes, the watch on his wrist—everything screamed entitled son of billionaire parents with nothing better to do but make it through school somehow.
He wasn’t even twenty, and he already had his life sorted out. His folks would make sure he got through some Ivy league college and into some cushy job. The works.
I could only wish for a life like his. But then again, I came from a world where wishes were fanciful little things.
He curled his lower lips and called out to one of his pets. They were ambling toward him, waiting for him to take the first shot.
I didn’t know what I was expecting. An iota of kindness, maybe? Someone who could look at me and tell me I wasn’t doing everything wrong?
I became a fish who’d been caught and left in brine water.
Reminding me of the one time my mom made us a meal out of nothing but canned tuna and crushed up crackers.
It was like a gourmet meal to us, and we all pretended to be fancy by using our best table manners. Now, these rich kids turned their noses up at anything that wasn’t posh and gilded in gold.
None of them knew what actual work went into growing their own food like when we used to grow vegetables in the backyard.
We didn't have a fancy garden or anything, just some dirt and seeds, but it was enough to make some killer salads. These rich kids wouldn't know a carrot if it hit them in the face.
And don't even get me started on their clothing.
Back in the day, I was rocking hand-me-downs from my older sister, which were usually several sizes too big. But you know what? I made it work.
These days, these kids are spending thousands on designer clothes that look like they came straight from a dumpster.
As I looked around at my fellow classmates, all I could think was, What a bunch of basic bitches.
And then, it hit me: maybe being on the wrong side of the tracks wasn't so bad after all. At least, we had character, and we knew how to have fun.
"What's up, loser? Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Nate, and I’m here to make your life hell." The boy I’d collided into sneered at me.
So, this was how it’d go.
I rolled my eyes and kept walking to math, Classroom 41, hoping they would just leave me alone. But of course, that was too much to ask for.
"Hey, Jennifer, did you raid your mom's makeup bag this morning?" One of his friends snickered, pointing at my face.
I could feel my cheeks turning red as the boys started laughing at me, but I tried to play it cool. "No, why?"
"Because your foundation is like three shades too light for your skin," Nate chimed in, smirking. "Maybe, you should go back to the other side of the tracks, where you belong."
I gritted my teeth, trying not to let their insults get to me.
"Why? So I can hang out with your mom again?" I retorted, earning a few chuckles from some nearby students.
The boys didn't seem to find my comeback too funny though. They just glared at me. But I wasn't going to let them get the best of me.
"You know, I actually prefer the other side of the tracks," I said, tossing my hair over my shoulder. "At least, they don't have to deal with assholes like you."
This time, even more people started laughing. I could see the boys getting angrier and angrier, but I didn't care. I was on a roll.
"Seriously, though," Nate said, getting in my face. "Why are you even here? You don't belong in our school."
I looked him straight in the eye and smirked.
"I'm here to show you that even a poor ass girl from the ghetto can make it in your world. Better get used to me. They called me Disruption where I came from last.”
Nate smirked. "It won’t take you a day for everyone to know you're not like us. You don't have the same clothes, the same cars, the same money."
I crossed my arms. "And thank god for that. I wouldn't want to be like you stuck up snobs if my life depended on it."
The boys just laughed and continued to taunt me, but I wasn't going to back down. Instead, I decided to have a little fun with them.
"You know, Nate. I heard your parents are so rich they have their own private island. Is that true?" I asked with a sly smile.
Nate's face turned red. "Uh, no. That's not true at all."
"I also heard that you guys have a secret handshake that only the cool kids know. Is that true?" I asked, my smile widening.
The boys looked at each other nervously. "Uh, yeah. Something like that."
My laugh echoed in the hall. "Well, you guys are so cool. I'm surprised you even stopped to talk to someone like me. Must mean I’m important enough.”
With that, I turned around and walked straight into class. I didn’t stop until I’d reached the last row. There was only one other boy there, a wiry thing with sandy hair and day-old ketchup on his blazer.
That’s the thing with rich people. They thought they could make anything look good.
Sighing. I dropped down beside him.
“First day?”
I resisted the impulse to turn around and smack him across the face. I didn’t want to have any more conversations today. The one I’d just survived was bad enough.
“No, I’ve been here for ages. I used to haunt the boys’ toilets, but I decided to make something of my life, so here I am,” I replied through gritted teeth.
To my surprise, he chuckled. “You’re a fiery one. I’m Richard. You can call me Rick.”
Of course I could, but I intended to never speak to him again.
“Don’t let those assholes get to you.” He gestured to the boys who just came in. Nate and his pack of hyenas.
I turned my face away as Nate bared his teeth at me. He sat two rows ahead. I could smell the expensive perfume on his clothes. The boy knew how to command a classroom.
But just because he paraded himself around like a peacock in an exhibition didn’t mean he had to.
“I don’t care about them,” I scoffed. “They can bully anyone they like. But if they think I’m not gonna stand up for myself, they’re wrong.”
Richard grinned. “You don’t look like you’d take any shit lying down. That’s a good thing. That’ll help you survive here.”
Before I could come up with a witty reply, a short, balding man walked into the room.
The teacher, Mr. Johnson, was trying his best to make algebra interesting, but he was failing miserably.
It was like he was speaking another language, and not even a cool one like French or Italian, but a boring one like Latin.
I was doodling on my notebook when Mr. Johnson suddenly started spewing out random equations that didn't make any sense.
"Now class, if you multiply X by the square root of 42 and divide it by pi, you get...uhhh...a really big number!" he exclaimed with excitement.
The class collectively groaned, and I stifled a giggle. I mean, come on, this guy was a total dork.
But then, something strange happened. Mr. Johnson started making mistakes, and they were hilarious.
He mixed up the numbers, forgot his own equations, and even accidentally solved a problem that wasn't even on the board.
The class started to loosen up, and we were all laughing at Mr. Johnson's expense.
"Uh, sir, I think you might need to go back to school yourself!" one of the boys in the front row shouted, and we all burst out laughing.
But Mr. Johnson was unfazed by our ridicule.
In fact, he seemed to revel in it. "You may laugh now, but one day, you'll be thanking me for teaching you the ins and outs of algebra!" His voice boomed through the classroom.
"Sure, because knowing how to find the value of X is going to help me in the real world," I muttered under my breath, earning a snicker from the boy sitting next to me.
As Mr. Johnson continued to bumble his way through the lesson, the class became more and more engaged, not because we were learning anything, but because we were having a good time.
I’d almost forgotten the events of the morning when Daniel made a snide comment.
“How will algebra help us deal with people who don’t belong with us, Mr. Johnson?”
Mr. Johnson stopped immediately. I could sense all eyes turning in my direction. I shifted in my seat, distinctly uncomfortable.
“I believe all students should follow a certain decorum when it comes to our school code.” He looked at me with disapproval. “Ms. Jameson, I understand you are the new transfer student?”
I nodded, refusing to meet his eyes. I kept looking down at the caricature of him I’d just made. It didn’t help that he began walking toward me.
“Now, why would you make yourself so obvious to the class? You are underdressed, and your make-up is inappropriate. You understand you are the lone female in an all-boys school? Why would you project yourself so cheaply?”
Was this balding dude for real? Who the hell talked this way?
And why was he making such an issue out of me and my individuality. I looked at him now, meeting his dull, lifeless eyes with a cold fire in my own.
“Sir, I haven’t been called to the ethics committee just yet. I believe I have the right to dress as I deem fit unless the board tells me otherwise.”
He’d walked up to my desk. I could smell the mustard on his breath, and it made me want to retch. I tried closing my notebook and pushing it away, but too late.
He pried it from my reluctant fingers, opened the first page, and was immediately met by the small, bald, mirror image of himself.
I’d doodled him to show spit flying from his lips as he waved his hands about in a ridiculous ballet pose, trying to teach math.
Yeah, it wasn’t pretty. What was worse was the way his face swelled and turned the exact shade of purple as that greedy little kid who got too eager in the Willy Wonka film I saw years back.
This wouldn’t be good.
“How dare you?” he asked, spit flying from his mouth in the exact same way I’d drawn in my picture. “Have you no shame?”
I should have apologized then and there. But I couldn’t.
“Come to the front of the class immediately.”
I gulped, stepped out of my seat, and walked to the front, each step telling me I was headed straight from the frying pan and into a very bad fire.
The kind that could scorch my ass, honestly.
At the very last row, one of the boys hissed, and someone else reached out and flipped my skirt.
Without thinking, I turned around and planted a resounding slap on the offender’s face.
“Ms. Jameson! We do not behave like uncivilized baboons here.”
“Nothing,” I spat at Mr. Johnson.
My mouth. My mouth would definitely be my undoing someday.
“Nothing gives your students the right to flip my skirt, or make comments on my clothes, or bully me for being the only girl here. I’m not in this institution by choice.”
To my surprise, he balked. I took a step toward him, my left hand outstretched, finger pointing accusingly at his waggling chin.
He looked like a boy who would cry any second because he’d been denied a hundredth slice of cake.
“You could have stopped them. You could have told them that what they’re doing isn’t permissible. But no, you chose to take it out on me. You’re as weak, as pathetic, as the boys in this class. At least, they’re young and stupid. What’s your excuse?”
“Detention!” he roared. “And you will see the principal immediately!”
“Fine!” I shouted back and stormed out of the class.
In less than a minute, the speakers in the hallway rang with a message on repeat, not unlike a broken recorder.
Ms. Jennifer Jameson, you are to report to the principal’s office.
Ms. Jennifer Jameson, you are to report to the principal’s office.
Just amazing.
“Welcome to hell, Jen,” I muttered to myself, climbing the stairs to my aunt’s hallowed chambers.
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