"School," she repeats. “Since you’re going to be staying here, at least for a while, you might as well focus on your senior year and start looking at colleges. You’ve only missed three weeks of classes.” She shrugs. “Go get ready, and we'll finish getting you registered."
College. I’ve never even considered college a possibility. I'm smart, yeah, and I got decent grades right up until my sophomore year in high school. When shit fell apart, school became the least of my worries, and my grades suffered. I switched from traditional high school to an online program to at least try to graduate eventually, but it’s still been challenging to find time for everything I need to do in a day. Besides that, there has never been a remote chance of being able to pay for college, even if my grades were stellar.
Once the initial shock wears off, I realize Cecily said finish getting me registered.
"Finish?” I question. “Oh, Auntie dear, how can we finish something we haven't even started yet?” I squint at her across the table, one eyebrow raised in suspicion. She just laughs her tinkly laugh and brushes me off with a wave.
"What can I say, I’m an optimist. As soon as you told me you were coming, I might have called a friend at Woodington to advise them you would be enrolling." With that little nugget of truth, she turns and floats out of the kitchen, leaving me gaping after her.
Woodington is actually Woodington Academy, an imposing century-old institution of higher learning with a storied history and a long line of fantastically successful alumni. At least that's the line the headmistress tried to spoon-feed me at the very long and very dull registration meeting yesterday.
Both Cecily and my mother were students here at one time, though only Cecily graduated. Her strong ties to the school might explain how I bypassed the substantial waiting list and was allowed to enroll after the start of the school year.
Almost like magic, my aunt had five complete uniforms appear in my closet overnight, pressed and hanging perfectly. Dark navy blazers, charcoal skirts, crisp white shirts, and a choice of long navy socks or tights. I'm even wearing a tie, for fuck's sake, though I had to ask Spry to teach me how to knot it properly.
Dressed in what feels like borrowed finery, I’m glad my shoes are still all me. One thing Cecily didn’t think of was footwear, and oh boy, was she kicking herself for that this morning when she saw these beauties. My well-worn black and white Vans make me smile as I stare down at them, remembering Sally calling them my Spicoli slides. When I told her I didn’t know what that meant, she made me watch Fast Times at Ridgemont High with her after calling me a heathen.
My smile falters as a perfect pair of high-heeled black patent Mary Janes step into view, rousing me from my thoughts.
Here we go.
"Stella Bradleigh?" the shoes ask politely in a lilting, smoky voice. Looking up, I'm struck by the silver-blonde beauty of the girl standing in front of me with her hand held out in greeting.
“Yeah. Hi.” I stumble over my words a little. “I’m she. She’s me.”
Fuuuuuuck. Deep breath, spaz.
“Sorry. Hi. Yes, I’m Stella.”
"I'm Sunday Easton, and I’ve been assigned as your peer mentor to show you around Woodington." She shakes my hand with a much firmer grip than I expected and grins down at my feet in appreciation. "Love your shoes. There's a hot pink pair of Chuck Taylors I keep hidden in the back of my closet so my mother can't find them and throw them out." Sticking her nose in the air, she says in her best haughty fake British accent, "Eastons don't wear sneakers, Sunday Grace." She rolls her warm hazel eyes and then laughs at the look of disbelief on my face at the mention of her middle name. "Oh yes, it’s true, but don’t worry, I do my best to not live up to the name. Perfect saintly Mother would shit twice and die if she knew half the things this Easton does." She grins and jerks her thumb at her chest for emphasis.
Something in Sunday's manner and easy laugh makes me instantly comfortable. My gut tells me I can be friends with this girl, no problem. My whole life, I’ve been conditioned to stand apart and keep everybody except my mother at a safe distance. Maybe it’s time for something different. We spend the next few minutes comparing notes on books we've both read, movies we've seen, and music we love. Who knew a California rich girl would have tastes so in line with a poor girl from small-town New York?
The school secretary, clearly annoyed with our conversation, manages to ask us almost politely to take it elsewhere. I follow Sunday out through the office door, and into the crowd of students milling around in the front foyer. We've got about forty minutes before our first class, so I'm surprised to see so many kids already here. Surrounded by all the visible privilege and wealth, I'm a little off my game. So much so, that I walk right into the back of my guide as she comes to an abrupt halt in front of me.
"Shit! Sorry!" I apologize and rub my nose where it connected solidly with the back of her skull.
Get it together. What did we say yesterday? Don’t gawk and walk!
Sunday turns back to me, flipping her angelic hair over her shoulder.
"Don't worry about it, New Girl. I mean, I do have a rather awe-inspiring ass so I can see why you'd be more interested in staring at it than paying attention to where you're walking."
For the next ten seconds, I'm not sure whether this girl is for real or not as she stands there, all straight-faced and serious-looking. At my stricken expression, she finally relents and unleashes a belly laugh that's totally at odds with her polished rich-girl exterior.
"Relax! I'm kidding! I know you're probably completely overwhelmed right now, but it's all good." She reaches out and gives my hand a quick squeeze and then points across the hall to the bank of lockers lining the wall. "That's where we are. Yours is two over from mine." She threads her way nimbly through the other students and glances back over her shoulder when she realizes I haven't moved. "Stella?" she questions. “You coming?”
"What? Oh, sorry. With that kind of lead-up, I had to check out the goods for myself." I reach up and tap my index finger against my lip thoughtfully. "I'd give it a solid seven," I say decisively as I join her at our lockers. For a split second, her face freezes in shock before she lets out another one of her belly laughs.
"Oh, hells to the no! This ass is a straight-up ten, bish!" she proudly proclaims, cocking her hip and smacking her butt cheek for emphasis.
Grinning and waggling my eyebrows at her, I lean my shoulder against the row of cold metal locker doors as she grabs what she needs for class. On the way to our shared homeroom, she points out various helpful landmarks like restrooms, the library, and the cafeteria.
As we walk, I start to covertly notice the attention Sunday draws and appears to be oblivious to. The guys here stare at her almost predatorily with undisguised lust, while the girls eye her with an odd mixture of wannabe awe and distaste. And all of them move just slightly out of her way as we pass, almost ceremoniously.
My observations are cut short, however, when Sunday grabs my wrist and detours us toward a group of students crowded around large double doors. Snippets of music and laughter float from the room within.