Page 30 of Ruthless Court

She glances at the line behind me.

“Transfer requests open after the first two weeks. You can submit one then, but there’s a waitlist.”

“How long?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“Openings.”

Very helpful.

I drag my suitcase toward the stairs. One wheel sticks every three feet, my backpack is digging into my shoulder, and the airline lost the smaller bag containing my contacts, toiletries, and every pair of underwear I didn’t pack in my carry-on.

My mother told me to split everything between the bags.

I told her I had a system.

My system is currently circling an airport conveyor belt in another state.

I’m wearing the emergency glasses I keep buried at the bottom of my backpack. Thick tortoiseshell frames, strong enough to magnify my eyes and possibly start fires in direct sunlight. My hair gave up somewhere over Nebraska and now sits in a lopsided knot on top of my head.

I look like a librarian fleeing a scandal.

Still, the California sun is warm on my arms.

No freezing wind.

No gray sludge along the sidewalks.

No air cold enough to close my lungs.

“Malibu Barbie,” I mutter as I fight the suitcase up the first step. “Focus on Malibu Barbie.”

A hand reaches around me and lifts the suitcase.

I turn, prepared to refuse help.

A tall boy in a Stanford basketball shirt carries it up the remaining stairs without asking.

“Second floor?”

“I had it.”

“It looked like it was winning.”

His smile is quick and practiced. Straight teeth. Easy confidence. He knows exactly what he looks like and expects the world to cooperate.

Familiar species.

“I enjoy a fair fight.”

He stops at the landing and sets the suitcase down.

“You live in Cypress?”

“Against my will.”