They don't play to win. They play to hurt.
Sterling Academy's irresistible reputation all came crashing down last year when a list of the 'top thirty girls too...' had been anonymously published.
Now recovering from the pits of hell the media dragge...
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tw: brief mention of ed.
STERLING ISN'T THE type of school where you make friends, it's the kind where you make alliances. Here lie future millionaires, billionaires even. People that are bred to be known.
I'm not stupid, I know I'm one of those people. I know the power I hold so delicately in those pretty little hands of mine.
Not a day of work, and yet blood stains them. Metaphorically, of course. The actual thought of real blood on my hands does something to my gut. Something nasty, and disgusting.
I don't do disgusting. I only do beauty, brains, and bitch. Those are what mother calls my three moods, it used to be four when I was younger: binge.
I hated it. Not the disorder but mothers outlook, if anyone ever came to know what I was before — who I was before, I think I'd die.
I know it would kill me.
I suppress the thought as I finish up the last of my makeup. School starts in twenty minutes and I'm not one to be late, I'm not too particular about anything though.
I leave a mess and someone cleans it. I start a rumor and someone spreads it. I wear something and someone admires it. It's a ripple effect. It's a continuation at school too.
But there I have to fight. Salem Whitfield is about as bright as a dud. The only thing she really has that I don't, are two married parents. And for lack of better words, they don't seem to treat her well. I know because as much as I hate to admit it, girls that turn out like us; attention starved, are not the ones that receive it at home, but quite the opposite.
Does she see it in me too? I hope she doesn't. I hate that girl.
With her dark luscious braids that pool down her back, her staggering five foot eight height that makes her seem even deadlier with heels, and the fact her skin glimmers in the sun like no other, due to the richness of it. She is beauty, but she is definitely not grace.
"Duckling, Polo has arrived," Mother's voice rings from the speaker outside of my bedroom.
I dread the noise every morning. The sheer fact that I can not escape it until the year finishes is like a death sentence, one that I've been trying to outgrow since I first realised my mother was Lucifer.
I choose to ignore her, practising the way I'm going to ignore the same question posed differently today.
Each deadlier than the last, wanting, thirsting, craving over what I'm going to where to whoever is throwing the Pre—Hal this year.
The invitations aren't out yet but it's a given I'm going to attend. I'm not going to sit here and lie, it's fun being important but it's hard upholding a standard set by society that is so unpredictable. One day I have to be working on my glutes, the next my chest.
