Private School Kings

Coronation

When I was thirteen my mother ran away with one of the meanest men I've ever met.

Two years later, my brother, Charlie, left me too.

After that I thought I'd never be happy again.

Later that year, I was awarded an athletic scholarship to one of the best high schools in the country. I went because how could I not? Really, how could I?

Things were almost good for a while.

Then, when I was sixteen I saw Heather Mccoy, a girl who was almost my friend, shoot Tim Watson, a boy who I might've loved if not for all the everything, in the back of the head. I saw the light leave their eyes at the same time. It fled from Tim's as he took his last breath and from Heather's as she realized she'd never have another restful night.

After that I knew I'd never be happy again.

And I was right.

I got out of the hospital with a severe concussion and three broken ribs. The school was lenient about giving me time off. Probably because they didn't want me to sue them for everything that Tim did- for everything they'd allowed him to do.

Fletcher got off without even a slap on the wrist from the courts. Though I'm not sure if it was the evidence or his father's money that did it. He was, however, expelled from Pruitt.

The day he packed up his room I helped. Madeline wouldn't come. Over the past few months she'd been afraid to leave Heather's side. It was like she thought the girl would die without her. Maybe she would.

When everything was boxed and taped Fletcher sat down on what had been his bed and cried. I held him, but I couldn't conjure up a tear. I was empty again.

He told me he was sorry. He told me it was all his fault.

I kissed him. He tasted like peppermint tea and his lips were soft, but I didn't feel anything.

He didn't pull away for a long time, and neither did I, but it didn't matter. He had to go and I was already gone.

Juliet wasn't in my dorm when I got home that night. She'd been sleeping with friends as much as she could. I think she was scared of me.

When I opened the door a flash of light caught my eye. Sitting on my bed, where Tim Watson had once reclined with my copy of The Great Gatsby, amidst the mess of navy blue sheets that desperately needed a wash, was a crown. The crown, gold and startling.

I had no idea who'd left it, but the message was clear; Pruitt was down a King, and a new ruler had been chosen.

I lifted the crown by its ornate metal sides. It was heavy, but not as heavy as I'd expected, and I raised it to my head with minimal effort. It was a little big, but when I pushed it back and looked into the mirror it seemed right. It looked like it belonged there. I didn't look like me. I was pale and thin and smirking without meaning to, but I did look a little like a king.

The truth of it settled on my shoulders then. It was something everyone had been trying to show me for a long time, if Fletcher or I had understood it earlier we might have saved ourselves a lot of trouble.

I still hated them. I hated all of them with their secrets, and their lies, and their shrunken, calloused, hearts. But that was the thing, they hated themselves. That's why they devised all those dangerous little games. It was punishment. They thirsted for that pain and destruction. All they needed was someone to set the rules now that Tim had gone... All they needed was someone to help them destroy themselves.

If they were going to beat each other to death and drink or snort whatever they could until the guilt went away then let them. Let them ruin themselves and everyone else. It's the only thing you can do. Because the truth is that no matter how much you try --no matter how hard you fight-- nothing ever changes.

Not. One. Thing.