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3
Willow
Aperson’s greatness isn’t defined by their talent, wealth, or education but by what it takes to discourage them. I ponder that thought while torrents of hot, massaging water pelt my skin in the massive marble encased shower. I still remember the feel of my father’s hands clapping down onto my shoulders while he gave me that line. I was the shit in middle school far as talents go, born to be a track star.
My family was on the opposite side of the railroad from wealth. Hillary made sure to cross the tracks. She’d married into affluence, which is why I now stand in a shower bigger than my old bedroom. I pour an obscene amount of French liquid soap onto a loofah. The opulence surrounding me hasn’t penetrated my stony heart.
Talent, wealth, education. However, on another occasion, Dad threatened to beat me like he’d been blessed with a son if I came home with another shitty progress report. I reminded him what he said about those three pillars not being so important. I got my ass handed to me.
Although talent, wealth, and education aren’t the foundation for victory, I’m zero to three in every category. I turn off the water, wrap myself in a towel as thick as my fucking thumb, and step onto the heated floor.
For the first time since my mom went into a coma, I’ve rolled out of bed resolute on not being my biggest enemy.
I meander out of the en suite bathroom into a guest room worthy of the prime position at a posh furniture store.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in the customary blue, emerald, and gold DuPont pleated skirt, linen shirt, and blazer with the ancient insignia. I finish off my look with an old pair of Nike running shoes. The front half of my dreadlocks drape around the crown of my head. The rest falls gracefully down my back. I’m tiptoeing down the marble staircase when the sound and smell of bacon sizzling stirs my angry stomach.
“Lolo, have you dressed already?” Hillary’s voice travels through the posh house. “Willow?”
With the sound of her drawing near, I make a mad dash out of the front double doors. My eyes adjust to the bright, sunny day, and I leave the entrance open for the world to see.
“Willow!” My sister shouts after me, waving a spatula. “You’ve ample time for breakfast. It’s your first day.”
My self-fulfilling prophecy of failure or success has nothing to do with her. She’s not Team Lolo. Dad either. If I flounder, she’ll distance herself from me, so why should I let her link up when I’m on the quest for triumph?
That’s if you survive an entire day at DuPont Academy, bonehead.
I fish one apple AirPod from the pocket of my new blazer and place it into one ear. During the mile walk, I fake listening to music while housewives jog by.
I can’t listen to music. I never got around to separating my playlist. It’s all a jumble of new and old school. And if my mom’s favorite songs come on, I’m broken. I can’t listen to Rihanna either. When Momma found out she was from Barbados, too, we ate, breathed, and lived every single bad-gal Riri song.
I meander by homes spanning half blocks to DuPont Academy, and in no time, I’ve arrived.
The imposing structures have the elegance of your standard private school and the dominance and feel of a college. Each building is a concrete, abstract piece.
Nervous, I grip the hem of the pleated skirt, yanking it down over my muscular derrière. “For fuck’s sake . . .”
With a backpack hefted over one shoulder, my cellphone vibrates in my hand. It could be one of two people, Hillary bemoaning about the spread she slaved over this morning, which makes my stomach grumble. Or the other bridge I’ve avoided. I’ve hurt everyone. Not him. He’ll move on. The shriveled organ in my chest constricts.
Christian will move on.
I take my first step across the street and into the parking lot. The sun streams down on the emblems of luxury cars. Where I come from, the kids never see these imports up close and personal.
I stroll through the lot instead of going around to the entrance. Heat spreads through me as my eyes lock onto a guy on a matte black Harley.
At first glance, he’s too clean for the beast of a bike. Swallowing hard, I let my gaze travel over him like Tetris. Reddish blond hair rustles in the morning breeze. His broad shoulders taper into a lean waist. The friggen blazer, slacks, all of him create a trifecta of the perfect advertisement for DuPont Academy.
He should be on the welcome committee.
Mouth slightly agape, my head swirls, intoxicated by the sight of Harley Guy. It gets ten degrees hotter when I’m close enough to peer into his disarming blue-green eyes. Darkness emanates from him, and I realize how genuinely captivating he is. I was drawn toward him and couldn’t turn away. At the last second, I zip around a Maserati and onto the sidewalk.
With the strange compulsion passed, I pull out my phone. I ignore the notifications of calls and texts from Hillary and the only friend I have in the universe.
Babe, let me wallow in misery. I’m bad for you. Christian Marchand is a reformed bad boy. After a moment’s hesitation, I decide not to respond to his text and click on my email for the registration and map of classes.
A firm, possessive hand lands on my arm, encircling the entire area. I turn around, first offering a pointed glare to the hand clamped over my arm. My eyelashes feather upward as I look straight into the arresting, stony features of the Harley guy I couldn’t quite pin.
His brilliant tropical blue eyes pull me under a warm wave. If I had the balls to close my eyes, I’d breathe him in. I’d memorize the depth and complexity of my new favorite scent and burn a candle labeled him every night.
