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RES’s old architecture doesn’t reduce any points from its stupid grandiose. Built in King Henry IV’s time during the 14th century, it was first used for the king’s subjects and then fell under the rule of aristocrats and old money folks.
The huge arcs and the stony, half-covered hallways envoke a breeze from the past mixed with the presence’s modernity. It has ten towers, each dedicated to a level. Seniors get four. Freshmen and second years get three each.
RES is exactly its name. Elite’s school. The private school of all schools. It’s not only about money here, though. If you don’t have the brains that go with Daddy’s bank account, then you’re not welcome within its walls.
It has the toughest entrance exams in the country and they’re very selective about who they accept into their ranks.
I guess I got lucky.
Or not.
Depending on how you look at it.
For one, education here can help me in breaking free from Dad. But does it matter if he’s the reason I’m here in the first place?
“So, party this weekend?” Dan asks with a waggle of his brows.
“Wow. You really think I’d step foot in a party after what happened at the last party we were at?”
“You can’t let them bring you down. I bet they want you to stop having fun.”
“It was a hit and run, Dan. Pretty sure they wanted me dead, not to stop me from having fun.”
“You think they’re the same person who called help and gave as many details about you as possible?”
“I don’t think it’s the same person.”
My ‘saviour’ as Dan and I labelled him was the one who had a star tattoo on his forearm. Sort of like the star in the Sun-Moon-Star tattoo Mum made for me.
The responders found no one by my side when they came to get me.
Dan searches my face. “And you still remember nothing about that?”
I shake my head. Because of the fire, the police didn’t manage to retrieve any surveillance camera footage.
The facts were: I was drugged then hit by a car that night. My blood test results came up with a considerable dose of Ecstasy and some cocaine.
I think Dad was angrier about the drugs — and therefore his reputation — more than whether or not I remained alive.
Dad thought I used drugs of my own accord. He didn’t have to say it so I can feel it. He thinks I’m a complete disgrace to the Clifford name.
All he did was slap me with numerous therapies, coping, maintenance. It’s like I’m a machine who’s supposed to start running again after a few mechanics look into it.
He did the same after Mum’s death. He never stopped to ask if maybe I want to talk to him instead of some strangers.
To occupy myself, I’ve been visiting the deputy commissioner — a friend of Dad’s — and insisting on finding the bastard who did this to me.
If they thought I would cower into my shell and be a turtle, they will have a freaking ninja turtle on their hands.
Okay, that was lame, but all my similes are, anyway.
Mum and I didn’t have much, but we had our dignity. She taught me to never take other people’s rights, but to not let them take my right either.
If you don’t strike back, people will stomp all over you, Star.
Mum might not be here anymore, but her words are my mantras.
“You’re all I got so don’t go all emo on me.” Dan fist-bumps me and we release on a sound that resembles the ‘Big Bang.’ “Stay strong, bugger.”
