The week passes in a surreal haze. And another. Gradually, things begin to return to normal. Your dad stops by your room one evening for a heart-to-heart, telling you he gets what happened, and that he’s trying to get your mom to ease up. Everyone makes mistakes. That he’s worried you’re drifting, and that if you don’t watch out you’re going to go over a waterfall. It’s a good speech, but you can see the disappointment in his eyes. At least he doesn’t bring up the Salopek gig any more – there’s no way, with the rumors flying around about you, that you stand a chance now. Caleb, likewise, stops asking: he knows your currency is no good.
School is awkward. Keith desperately tries to play up his bad boy image you try and do everything you can to ignore it. Keith only manages to make himself seem increasingly lightweight in the process as he lapses into his half-baked, dorky Mr Cool persona. You, on the other hand, seem to cultivate a genuine mystique by refusing to talk about what you got up to. Quiet murmurs continue to circulate the student body about where you got the scar, slowly fading on your cheek. The best, which you overheard two sophomores gossiping as you headed down the corridor, was you got it in a knife fight. Keith was right: you’ve never had this kind of publicity.
Not everyone buys Bad Boy Will Prescott. As far as you can tell (not that you’re going to ask), the social strata of cheerleaders and sports teams is utterly impervious, while your own social circle brings you down to Earth with a shattering bump. But, even as the rumors die down, you find that it has strange results at school.
“Will.” You’re stepping out of English class when your name is called in the corridor, and you turn to find the smiling face of Brooke Galloway. You barely know her – she’s one of the rich kids (or, at least, what passes for rich at Westside). Nowhere near as much a snooty, full-on bitch as Kelsey Blankenship, but she’s never really spoken to you.
“Yeah?” You’ve discovered that not calling people by their name only seems to add to the mystery that surrounds you. You lean back on a nearby locker. You think it makes you look cool.
“You’re friends with some of the girls at St. Xavier’s, aren’t you?”
Weird question. Where’s she going with this? You aren’t sure whether to confirm or deny it, so air on the side of caution. “I’ve got some numbers in my phone,” you say, figuring it’s at least true – although the last text you got from that bitch Mary, as you were hauled away by the cops, was simply “LOL”.
“Hmm. Well, I was wondering. What are you doing this weekend?”
“Grounded,” you say. “At least, I probably am. Why?”
“Hmm,” she says again, a slightly longer hum in her mouth this time. “Shame.”
“I might not be,” you add. It’s been two weeks. Your parents’ll have to let you out sometime.
“Hmm.” A third, deeper pitched noise. “There’s a gathering at the country club from 3pm until 5pm on Saturday. Smart casual, of course. I was wondering if you’d care to escort me.”
“Escort you?” Like on a date?. You stare at her in surprise for a moment, before desperately trying to recover. “Well, uh, I could. Maybe. Sure. Depending on whether I’m grounded.”
Brooke leans forward. “I want to make this clear to you: this is not a date. It’s just a social event. Some light refreshment, canapes, that kind of thing.”
Canopies? you wonder. Like umbrellas?
“And, in exchange for getting you inside,” Brooke continues, “I’d like you to introduce me to your friends out at Xavier’s. I’m sure some of them will be there; I know at least two girls are in the squash league with Kelsey, and it’s not like there’s anywhere else to golf this side of McGuffey City. Deal?”
“Sure,” you nod. “It’ll be a pleasure.” At the very least, you’ll be able to get eyes on the girls that screwed you over – and work out how to get your revenge.
At that, she makes a fourth ‘hmm’ and nods, before flashing a radiant smile. “In that case I’ll expect you at my house on Saturday afternoon. See you around, Will.”
***
On Wednesday, your mom gives you thirty bucks and tells you that she wants you to make a grocery run. You’re hesitant at first, but she looks you square in the eye and says those magic words: “You’re not grounded anymore.” You hop in your truck and feel the liberating thrill of your own set of wheels once more. Sure, you’re only driving to Walmart, and you’re not dumb enough to take any detours (your mom’s probably timing you), but it’s sweet relief to know that everyone’s finally willing to put the trespass behind them.
Except you’re not. Not quite. At around 2pm on Saturday afternoon, you find yourself heading back to Monte Viso’s. The place looks dead, but from the lot, you can see the familiar chic pageboy of the attendant, Roxanne, staring at her Kindle in abject boredom. She clocks you coming as you walk up, and you can feel the ground shift as she rolls her eyes and shakes her head at your approach.
“Just stop. Please. For your own health.”
“Not looking for a game,” you say. “I just wanted to talk to you.”
Roxanne sighs, and sets her Kindle down. “I’m not a chatline. If you’re not playing, I really don’t have anything to talk to you about.”
“We won the giant Toblerone,” you say. “I’m here to collect.”
“After two weeks? Ha, no. Any prizes must be redeemed on the day in question. It’s right there, on the back of the ticket.” She holds up a stub, index finger scanning over terms and conditions such as ‘Monte Viso’s shall not be held responsible for any accident, including loss of limb or death, arising from misadventure or attempts to reclaim balls from hazards, traps or obstacles’. “Sorry, them’s the rules. Besides, as I remember it, Corinne won the Toblerone. I was watching you morons get hustled on the CCTV.”
“Yeah. And you know what happened next?”
Roxanne fixes you with a stare. “Yeah, I do. Mary Occam played you like an idiot, you tried to break in to the school, and Marius Hall called the cops on you. It’s all anyone at Xavier’s talked about for a few days.” She pinches her nose in resignation. “Look, I tried to tell you. They’re different. Not everyone at Xavier’s is like that, there are genuinely chill people too, rich and poor alike. But dealing with someone like Mary is like playing a Vegas casino: the house always wins.”
“I can handle a couple of rich kids.”
She leans forward, looking either way to make sure management isn’t nearby. “No, you can’t. You cannot imagine the wealth people like Mary have grown up with and the sense of entitlement it’s given them. They do not lose.”
You twitch an eyebrow. Roxanne’s head drops for a second, the pageboy tumbling over her eyes, before she looks back up at you.
“’Kay, listen to me. Never mind soccer or basketball – we’re talking about a school with a fucking eventing team. You know, that fancy-ass horse-riding they do in the Olympics? When I was in the fourth form, one of the boys in my year had a sixteenth birthday party which apparently featured his favorite rapper as the entertainment. And just last week, a girl in my social studies class called Portia asked if it was legal to shoot the homeless. She was genuinely shocked to learn it was considered murder. I’m telling you: it’s another world. Walk away.”
“Which is why you’ve got to help me get these assholes.”
“Which is why,” Roxanne says, patience wearing thin, “I am going to do no such thing. You. Will. Lose. Forget about what happened and move on.”
“I’ve already got an invite to the country club later. I’m going to―” you try and remember Mary’s words. Something about meeting the enemy?
“Don’t,” Roxanne says, suddenly very serious. “Do not go.”
“It’s just a social event. Light refreshment under some canopies.”
She gives a heavy sigh. “What’s your name?”
“Will.”
“All right. Will. I mean this. The devil herself is going to be there, and now she knows you’re a sucker. One look in her hypno-eyes and you’re going to do something even dumber than getting tricked into a booze run for Mary Occam. She will fuck you up for kicks and you won’t even realize it until it’s too late. If you go to that country club today, that’s it: your life is over.”
“I’m not going to fall for their crap again,” you say. “This is about payback.”
Roxanne sighs, grabs a scrap of paper and a pen, and scribbles something down. “Look, you seem nice for a complete tool – and no, that’s not me flirting with you, you aren’t my type and you haven’t got a hope in hell. But this, here, is a better invite than going to that country club.”
She slides the paper out of the booth. It’s a scrawled address. “Don’t try and be something you’re not,” Roxanne continues. “The peeps there can smell a phoney like a shark smells blood. But if you’re looking for a new crowd, for good people, there are worse places in town to try.”
You take the paper. “Thanks,” you say, looking at it. It seems like a genuine offer.
“Welcome. Just don’t go there if you’re only trying to get your dick wet. I don’t need the shit for saying you’re cool, all right?” At last, Roxanne gives you a smile.
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