Grey
THE DEAN’S NEED TO HEAR his own drivel makes me want to take a dirt nap, right here, and since his office is the size of an expensively furnished coffin, it would be fitting.
“I expect you to be my ambassador on this, Grey. I want you to make a fine impression today. Hillcrest is not merely a high school. We are an institution that breeds…”
For fuck’s sake. Shut the fuck up.
I’ve been stuck in his overrun-by-paper, piece-of-shit office for the last ten minutes listening to his “do me a favor” speech.
Normally, I wouldn’t entertain him, and he wouldn’t dare to ask, but he has something I want, and he knows it. Unfortunately for me, he holds the authority to allow the rowing team to compete in a “friendly” match with our rivals on school property.
I want that match. And I want it on the books. Because it makes the humiliation that much more visceral for them, so I’ll sit here and listen, pretending to give a fuck, if it ensures my interest.
The dean’s been dragging his feet, withholding approval, for too long now. He was made aware of this race over the summer, and I expected his acquiescence by now. I know the holdup is because he knows the competition isn’t friendly at all, and that’s not a good look for the school, so far as he’s concerned. I couldn’t care less about his opinion, but I’ll be sure to give it to him if he forces my hand.
This race is more than kids playing with boats, at least that’s what everyone above his pay grade understands. It’s tradition. I suppose I can’t fault him for misunderstanding a world where he plays the role of a bystander. But I will, anyway.
Hillcrest’s hatred for Red Oak is legendary. That animosity’s been nurtured, coddled, and coaxed over generations. It’s the kind of rivalry that rich and powerful kids indulge in as practice for our future boardrooms.
And my rivalry with Paul Hearst is almost just as legendary. I captain Hillcrest’s crew team, and he does the same at Red Oak. The difference between us is that I win. Always.
The monotone hum of the dean’s voice pulls my attention back into the present. I watch his portly body pace behind his cherrywood desk as he continues with his dull-ass speech, imagining this is the most exercise he’s seen in years. Pathetic.
What the fuck could this guy understand about legacy or power?
“As one of our most respected students, I’m certain I can count on you to make sure our new student has an easy transition. I’m positive you’ll be the perfect example as to the caliber of student here at Hillcrest.”
The dean’s assistant walks in, placing a file on his desk, giving me a sly smile as my eyes travel the length of her tight body. I’m curious if she wears lace or cotton underneath that little black skirt. I bet they’re cotton, and I bet she’s got a tiny little wet spot where she wishes my fingers were.
“Mr. McCallister, please pay attention,” he chastises, and little miss secretary straightens, quickly hurrying out.
I narrow my eyes at his tone, unhappy to be torn from my thoughts. “You have my attention. For how long, though, depends on what you’re willing to give me. Cut to your point.”
His chin tips up as a show of his embarrassment over being reminded of his place.
I relax back into my chair, amused, watching him swallow hard as he adjusts the items on his desk, seemingly searching for something.
Maybe he’s searching for his pride. It’s not by the stapler, Dean.
Fixing the lapels on his well-worn suit, he clears his throat. “I would like you to show this student—” He continues, opening the file that was previously placed, “—ah yes, Darren, around our school and get him acquainted with the lay of the land. And as a thank you, I will allow your little race.”
“I’m done with this inane conversation now that I’ve gotten what I came for. I’ll ignore the dig, but consider that favor done.”
I stand, and he does the same out of expectation, not authority, which makes me grin as I button my school blazer over my broad frame, taking in how small Dean Pritchett seems, literally and figuratively. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his muted suit jacket, still staring down at some paperwork, probably trying to regain some composure after just being slapped.
Jesus, you’d think they’d pay the dean of Hillcrest more money. The man looks like a functioning alcoholic—bloated and sallow. He’s definitely a guy who still lives with his mother…and the cats.
“I do have one more item, Mr. McCallister. The alumnae are recognizing your father at our booster event in October. I thought you’d like to prepare something to say.”
As I think about how to answer, my eyes drift around his office, spotting a framed picture of a much older gray-haired woman on the bookcase behind him. There’s Mommy. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s in a cat frame. I should leave him a loaded gun on his desk tomorrow.
I bring my eyes back to his worn face and shake my head. “Unnecessary. I won’t be attending. They’ll have to circle jerk alone.” Walking to the door, I glance back expectantly to his stunned face. “I assume we’re going to the front steps…? To meet our new friend? Or are you going to stand there all day?”
“Decorum, Mr. McCallister” is all he says, as he rounds his desk, walking toward the door.
“Right.” I half laugh. “After you, Dean Pritchett.” I smile wide, opening the door for him, and file out behind.
We walk past some secretarial desks and wind through the bland offices, taking a long hallway to a set of double doors that lead to the main entrance of the school.
Kids are milling about before classes, playing on their phones and socializing; the first day always starts with a late start. So the atmosphere is relaxed. Their eyes all dart to me as I walk past them, probably wondering what I’m doing and why I’m with the dean.
If this school had a royal court, I’d be the king. The reality is, this school is a snapshot of the world, and McCallister is my crown, even if it’s heavy on my head.
It’s not something I asked for or even worked for, just the natural order of things.
But to the victor go the spoils and all that shit. I pass one of those spoils and my eyes drift over her busty frame as she gives me a tiny wave. “Oh my God” is whispered by her friend as I exit the building, their giggles fading away.
The moment we exit, the sun makes my eyes squint, but the air is crisp, the way it always is at the beginning of September. I tip my face up, closing my eyes, wishing I was on the water, rowing. It’s the perfect weather for it. I should’ve blown off the Yale meeting yesterday and gone with Liam.
Dean Pritchett’s footsteps echo as he walks down the six or so steps to a circular drive to wait for the car that’s approaching, but I hang back. I haven’t any interest in making a good impression on his behalf. Anyone worth knowing already attends Hillcrest, so whoever this Darren is, is already unimpressive.
I rest my hip against the iron stair railing and bring my hand up to my forehead in an attempt to shield my eyes, watching the car getting closer. I can’t help but internally count the minutes. I want this little deed done and over.
The road that leads into the school is long and flanked by trees full of changing leaves. The crimsons, yellows, and burnt oranges that fill the backdrop heighten the beauty of the sky and add to the grandeur of the school.