I cut through the campus green where several groups of students sprawl out under the sun. Some are studying, some are just enjoying the nice weather. Almost all of them look up when I pass. Their stares burn into my skin. In response, I break into a light jog and pick up the pace.
Just as I reach the front doors of the building that houses Ms. Bairns's office, the door is shoved open from the inside, and I swerve to the right, narrowly avoiding being hit. A dark figure emerges—tall enough that I have to crane my head back to meet his eyes.
I wait. Expectant. But instead of an apology, his lips curve into a facsimile of a smirk—not quite one and yet … at the same time, it feels like he’s laughing at me and I don’t fucking like it. He meets my eyes with a stare of his own. Eyes the color of dark molten honey, like burnished gold if it’d been mixed with chocolate—or they would've been had it not been for the hint of copper there. I glare up at him.
"Well?" I snap.
He arches a strong dark brow. "Well, what?" he inquires.
My hackles rise and try as I might to shove them back down, they remain up. The need to fuck something up pounds against the inside of my skull and I shove it down, but only barely. "You gonna apologize so I can be on my way?" I ask.
"You can be on your way whenever you fucking want. I'm not stopping you."
I roll my eyes, turn, and grab the door, yanking it open. "Asshole," I mutter as I slip inside. As the glass swings shut behind me, a deep chuckle from the man filters back to me and makes something unfurl in my stomach. I grit my teeth and continue walking.
Thankfully, this building—unlike the dorm—is equipped with an elevator. I ignore the girl who practically leaps out of the small space the second I enter and jam my finger at the button to take me to the correct floor. Seconds later, the elevator dings and the doors slide open to reveal a long tiled hallway.
Turning my head side to side, I take the first step off the elevator and scan my surroundings. With a low whistle, I march forward. I'm no expert in expensive shit—the most expensive thing I've ever owned is probably my cell phone—and it's a few years old, bought off the market with an already cracked screen. This hallway, though, I can tell is expensive. It's brightly lit—illuminating the marble white tiles underfoot. One side of the area is covered in a row of windows that stretch up to the ceiling and the other boasts large portraits of old white men in various forms of antiquated clothing, all of it formal.
It’s kind of interesting seeing generations of rich assholes lined up one by one. I’m sure Rylie’s right about the rich being corrupt. I wonder if any of these men ever killed for their money when they were alive. My guess is yes. Everyone kills—living with Patricia taught me that. Sometimes, it’s the killing of childish dreams and sometimes it’s just a fucking body. The end result is the same. Death and hopelessness.
Uncomfortable with the direction of my own thoughts, I press my lips together and stride forward, reaching the end of the hallway, and find Ms. Bairns's office. Pausing just outside of the slightly cracked door, I knock once and poke my head inside. Ms. Bairns's familiar face turns towards me.
"Avalon," she says, offering me a smile. "Come on in."
I push the door open even further, stepping into the lavish office. Hell, the place is larger than my dorm room. Doesn't seem all that fair since I have to fucking share it and live there, and she only has to be here likely eight hours a day or so, but I keep my mouth shut.
"You've been a busy girl," Ms. Bairns says as soon as my ass lands in the seat before her.
"Oh?" Does she already know about the fucking pricks from class? I wondered silently.
"Yes." She nods, opening a drawer and reaching inside. I watch as she withdraws a file. "You just moved in a mere few days ago, but you're already into your first classes. How are they going?"
My body automatically relaxes but only marginally. "They're fine.”
Her eyes flick up to meet mine briefly as she palms the file and flips it open. "No problems?" she asks. "Are you making friends?"
I snort. When I don't answer, her head lifts again and she tilts it at me curiously. "You didn't bring me here to make friends," I say. "You brought me here to up your statistics and to look good on the college's tax receipts."
Her head's already shaking before I'm even done speaking. "That's absolutely not true, Avalon. You were brought here because of your potential."
"My grades?" I scoff. "They're good, but nothing's going to erase my rap sheet, Ms. B."
Ms. Bairns's face morphs, her smile growing warm even as a gleam enters her eyes. She lifts her arms up and props her elbows against the desk, settling her chin into her steepled fingers. "What if it could, though?" she asks.
"Excuse me?" I frown.
"What if your rap sheet could just"—she lifts one hand to flick her fingers out—"disappear." Ms. Bairns looks at me for a moment, waiting for some reaction but when she doesn’t get one, she leans forward. “We can make that happen, you know?”
Here it is. I suck in a breath and let her see the unimpressed look in my eyes. What Rylie warned me about. She was fucking right. I lean my spine against the back of the chair and cross my arms and wait.
Ms. Bairns’s must take that as her cue to continue, because she settles in and grins at me as she starts talking. “What if I told you that once you’re finished with your high school credits here, we can transfer you in as a freshman?” she asks. “You could go to college here—a very prestigious university.”
“I’m sure I can’t afford it,” I deadpan.
“Not right now,” she agrees. “But with scholarships and—”
“Just tell me what the catch is,” I say, cutting her off.
“No catch, Avalon,” she says, her tone earnest as she reaches across the table and places her hand in front of me. I look from it back to her face. “It’s a great opportunity. Yes, of course, the university will benefit from having students who bring up the general average of tests and scores, and if you do accept the scholarship, you’ll be expected to finish all four years. Our retention rate is very important to us.”
I'm not impressed. In fact, the more she talks, the itchier I feel—like a thousand tiny ants are crawling across my skin. It’s disgusting “What else?” I snap, scratching at the back of my neck. I want nothing more than to stand up and leave this room, but at the same time I want her to be fucking honest. To open up and tell me what the fuck they really want from me. No one gives handouts. Those aren't real. People always want something in return.
She blinks as if surprised by my tone, but I don’t really give a shit. Here she is, spouting off how great this opportunity is, but all I can see are strings. Strings hanging from the ceiling, encircling her arms and legs and pulling her movements. I wonder if they’re tied so tight that they’ve cut off circulation to her brain—maybe that would explain why she seems to think I’m fucking dumb. I like Ms. Bairns well enough, but it's clear she's just another fucking puppet. And I hate people who let others dictate their movements.