The reflection looking back at me is one that is grossly familiar and foreign at the same time.

Chestnut haired and red-lipped, I appear as a more glamorous version of my true self. Massive Dior Spirit 2 sunglasses block the glaring rays of the sun beaming upon the blue waves of the sea crashing onto the beaches of Montauk.

"Miss, your Bloody Mary?" The waitress brings forward a concoction of olives and celery drenched in vodka and tomato juice towards me. I thank her as the person I'm meeting, Jack Greene, arrives by the entrance. He scans the crowd before seeing me, a figure with a dark-haired wig swept into a chignon clasps with a pearl-detailed barret.

"Shouldn't you be in school?" he muses as he takes the seat directly opposite of me.

"Uncle Jack," I sigh as I remove my sunglasses, "You know I don't do school. Do you want a drink?"

"Yes," he turns to the waitress with a dazzling smile, "Whiskey neat."

The waitress jots down the order on a notepad and takes off without a word. I am distinctly indistinguishable in a Marine Serre top tucked into a pair of Issey Miyake Homme Plissé trousers with black respectable Prada pumps.

"So?" I prompt once the waitress leaves.

He sighs, taking off his spectacles to rub the glass with his Brook Brothers argyle sweater. "I found it."

My heart skips eight beats. "The report?"

He nods grimly.

"What did you find?"

Reaching into a Tom Ford briefcase, he presents me a white folder and slides it over to me. "I haven't looked at it but Devon told me it's not good."

I sigh. I steel my nerves in preparation for what's to come as I open it. My eyes scan through the details, my throat closing up as more information is revealed to me. One thing that strikes me is under the 'Narrative/Notes' segment it says:

Suspect Orson Calloway is reported to have only two beers.

I grew cold. The medical report said he had a BAC of 0.212%. Two beers meant he was still sober enough to write his name, run a marathon, drive a car. Granted, he was only fourteen when he made the decision to get into the driver's seat but I've been around Orson enough to know he was not a lightweight. The medical report submitted into the court case and the original police report had two different conflicting stories on the state of Orson's intoxication. My breath was closing in.

Shit, shit. What happened then? Why did Orson lose control of the car if he wasn't even that drunk?

I flipped through the pages with the pit inside of my stomach growing into a bigger black hole, only to stop at a section where it read:

There were no skid marks on the pavement, suggesting the driver had not applied the brakes, or that they had not been functioning well, before reaching the stop sign.

I didn't even need to read further to reach the daunting conclusion. The brakes of the limo were not working- or most likely, tampered.

It didn't matter whether Orson was a fourteen-year-old driving a limo with his friends or there was a driver taking Orson back to his penthouse. It didn't matter whether there was alcohol involved or not because whoever tampered with the brakes intended for Orson to die in a car crash in the first place. Only he didn't.

My parents did.

-

The two Adderall I've dry swallowed in the bathroom before third period does not help in stifling the sleepiness that is the result of staying up all night pouring through the details of that police report.

My eyes are drooping as the calculus teacher discusses the results of our midterms. I'm so bored I can't even hear what he's saying as my attention flickers over to my phone, which has a notification from Orson popping up: Babe, wanna grab dinner at Catch tn?

Suddenly, the classroom door swings open. A freshmen, bare-faced and innocent, in her ill-fitting school skirt and unpressed Agnes B button down. "Um, sorry for interrupting," she apologizes as she's shifting nervously in her spot. The whole class of seniors stare at her. There's something careful and sincere about her movements, like she's super focused on doing everything correctly.

"The Principal is looking for Amory Scout in her office."

Mr Kaimer, the calculus teacher, folds his arms at me, eyebrow cocked, "Amory?"

It goes dead silent in the room; somebody coughs. The class breaks into whispers. A wannabe Elite whispers to her friend, "I love her bag. I wonder where she gets it."

"I'll follow you," I tell the freshmen. She nods at me, wide-eyed. I doubt an Elite has ever spoken to her in her life.

I pad behind her down the empty hallways of Kensington, my black Chanel slingbacks click-clacking behind the small freshmen girl with my Hermes Kelly briefcase in tow. Eventually she brings me towards a door where she knocks loudly and a voice that sounds like the Associate Principal Mrs Abbey says: "Come in."

The office is a stately room with modern furnishings and chrome accents. The tall windows behind the obsidian desk allows for large amounts of light emitting from the skyline to penetrate the room, revealing the hulking, massive buildings with glistening glass surfaces and asymmetrical structures populating it's streets. Despite the historical building, Kensington's offices and classrooms are all decorated in an extremely modern, futuristic way- almost like a science lab.

One of the first things I notice about the Principal's room is how significantly cramped the room is, due to the number of people in it. There's Principal Shaw, the Vice Principal Mrs Abbey and Parker, who has her hair neatly braided into two, sitting cross-legged by the front of the modern principal's desk, looking pissed as shit.

And strangely enough, along with this entourage, there are Melissa and Bailey Conroy, who are not in school uniforms but donning matching skinny jeans with stylish vaguely Indian-looking print blouses in different colours of navy and cyan.

"Ma'am, I brought you Amory Scout." The freshmen girl squeaks out, her volume rising at my name.

"Thank you, Kaylie, you may go now," Principal Shaw dismisses and the girl nods speechlessly before bouncing off and closing the door behind her.

I register the two authority heads with a sense of polite reverence, the same kind of attitude one might use in front of another parent. We all might be your average coke-sniffing Gucci-wearing degenerate but we're good at weaponizing our angelic pretty faces to blink innocently at the face of adults.

"What is this about?"

Principal Shaw dips his head low and sighs in his seat, "Miss Scout, something very troubling has been brought to my attention. You are not in trouble, I promise you, but we need your cooperation for this to go smoothly."

I look at Parker bizarrely, as if to say what is this about?

Parker's mouth is an angry line that rips into a snarl. She's so angry, I can almost feel it coming off her. "Bailey and Melissa are saying that they wrote my Yale personal statement for me."

What? My head whips over to Melissa and Bailey, who are wearing twin smirks. They look significantly pleased with themselves. Bailey throws me a wink.

"And since we have no way of confirming evidence with all this he says, she says, I'm going to ask of you to confirm whether plagiarism or this kind of act is something Miss Holtz is likely to do."

Parker folds her arms and huffs, like all these accusations are a waste of her precious time. I shift uncomfortably in my position- to appear unsure and burdened with these loaded questions. I blink innocently up at Principal Shaw, "Why me?"

"You are good friends with Miss Holtz, aren't you? You'll be an accurate judge of her character," Principal Shaw sips his cup of coffee and gazes at me intensely- not in a creepy, perv way, but in a discerning sense like he could bear down my soul, unwrapping the layers of mistruth and deceit in my words, "And Miss Scout, I trust you'll tell the truth."

"I-" I glance over at the Conroy twins, who are smiling, and I look at Parker, who smiles tightly at me but the warning flare in her eyes says I better tread lightly. It's up to me. I need the nail in her coffin. Especially since she's not on my side anymore. I heave a deep sigh and with all the sorriness I can muster, I say: "Well, I'm not sure about a Yale paper but I...I have heard Parker asking the Conroy twins to do her MUN resolutions for her before."

Parker straightens up and throws me a furious glare. What the fuck, bitch?

I plead with her using my eyes. He asked for the truth. I couldn't lie. My expression tells her a sugar-coated lie while my brain tells me: Get rid of her before she's hot on your tails.

Bailey nods at my confirmation, "You see, Mr Shaw? Parker constantly harasses the underclassmen beneath her to do her work," she says, brandishing a lip gloss before opening the tube to reapply a fresh layer.

"You fucking bitch," Parker lunges at Bailey and Melissa steps in, pushing her back harshly. Parker hits back by grabbing Melissa's hair and Melissa yelps as Parker rips out a strawberry-coloured clip-in hair extension.

"Miss Holtz, control yourself!" Principal Shaw's voice booms across the room- and it sobers the two girls up from ripping each other out.

"This isn't true! It's slander! Wait till my mother hears-"

"Miss Holtz," Mrs Abby interrupts chillingly, her voice is subzero-cold. Practiced, low and controlled, Mrs Abbey peers over the gold-rims of her Celine glasses with a calm austerity that enchants the whole room to look at her when she speaks. "Have you ever in your life made another student do your work for you?"

Parker's bottom lip trembles, her eyes look wide and tears are threatening to fall out. "I-I-" she puts her head down into her hands.

"Miss Holtz, answer honestly."

"Maybe once or twice...but I wrote that personal statement! I got into Yale!" She wails. Melissa smirks as she adjusts the clip-ins back in her hair and sit back down with Bailey.

Principal Shaw's nostrils flare up. He put his fingers on a temple, as if a massive headache is developing. "Miss Holtz, this is a very serious accusation. It does not matter whether you plagiarized your Yale personal statement or a resolution for an after-school extracurricular activity."

Parker's lips start to quiver again. This time, tears are free-flowing down her cheeks.

"And I'm sorry Miss Holtz but I'll be informing the Dean Chun of this," Principal Shaw says heavily.

"What? You can't do that!"

"I can and I'll have to," Principal Shaw sighs, "You must also forfeit the Homecoming crown. Now all of you, please leave to your respective classes."

Mrs Abbey walks across the room to open the door, silently motioning us to leave. We all move in a single file, obeying the order without much of a fight- especially from Parker, who is now sulking with silent tears streaming down her face.

When Mrs Abbey closes the Principal's door behind us, Melissa's angelic face contorts into one of sheer malice. "That's what you get."

And with that, the Conroy twins march off down the hallway out to the entrance of the school. My stomach twists at the splash of pain across Parker's features. She folds her arms across her chair and stares dejectedly at the hallway.

"Are you okay?" I ask her.

She doesn't look at me. "Yeah, I'm perfect," even though she's sniffing her nose, her voice is still dripping sarcasm.

I make myself sound so sweet and sympathetic you can't help but melt at my tone. "Are you sure? We can skip school, talk about it if you want."

"No thanks."

We are now looking at each other. I blink. She blinks. I shoot her a smile and there's so much she can read in it. Just a month ago we were hand in hand, swinging our hips together and matching our outfits together. Now we are more distant than ever, enemies even. I feel a little sad but I pinch it away.

You chose your side, Parker. I gave you an easy escape.

The bell rings a few seconds later. Sounds of a busy hallway starts to flood in- stampedes of polished black shoes hitting the floor, students pouring out of classrooms to get to their next class, the swishing of Kensington's school skirt, the chatter of gossip filling in the background noise, the smell of designer perfume heavy in the air.

"Well, I have to get to my next class," I tell her. I step closer to her and envelope my arms around a heartbroken, crestfallen Parker, "But text me if you need anything, okay?"

-

Orson's a lavish kind of person when he's in love, I come to find.

I roll back up to my apartment after school to find the penthouse apartment showered in red rose petals and streamers.

"Hi baby!" A familiar voice greets me and I almost dropped all of my Calc textbooks in pure shock of finding Orson beaming at the entryway with Veronica in a bathrobe and a green face mask waving at me excitedly.

"Orson?" I blink, confused, "What- what are you doing here?"

He grins in my face, "I came to surprise you! I wanted to finally meet your family!"

"I let him up, sweetie!" Veronica says, brandishing her glass of wine excitedly. I notice how she's naked under her robe and mentally face-palms.

"Oh- hey, this is so nice," I try to save my genuine befuddlement and flummoxed state by plastering an immediate smile as Orson steps forward to help me with the books I dropped and peck a kiss on the tip of my mouth.

"This is so exciting," Veronica exclaims, "I heard here and there how Amory is finally seeing somebody but it's so nice to meet you in person! When Orson showed up, I immediately booked us a table at Grand Oaks with the Olsens for dinner!"

"Aunty Veronica," I say, my tone jumps to a testier angle, "I'm sure Orson is too busy to come-"

"Oh please, I already discussed it with him and he's delighted to join us for dinner," she waves me off and clasps her hands together in fervent delight. She throws me a wink behind Orson's turned back and gives me a thumbs-up, as if she approves of me landing one of the most coveted bachelors on the island.

"Well, if we're going to go to dinner then I'd better get dressed. Um Orson, do you mind waiting in the living room?"

"Oh don't be such a mormon Amory," Veronica laughs, "He's your boyfriend, not your dad. You can have him in your room."

Orson laughs at the subsequent blush creeping up my neck, eyes twinkling as I fold my arms across my chest. "Okay," I turn to him and roll my eyes. I straighten up to look unflustered even though the thought of Orson turning up at my house in front of all my family members and being in my room unsettles me so much I have to puke.

"You're finally showing me your room," he teases, hand slipping around my waist. I notice Orson is a lover of many touches; he loves to feel the body of someone when he's into them and I wonder for a brief moment if he was ever like this with Georgina and finding it impossible to imagine it because Georgina seems so pure and frigid it's like loving a statue made out of marble.

"You're lame," I chid him but I force my body to release tension and I bring his face into mine, his head lowering into a deep kiss as I lead him through our penthouse foyer and living room, which features an enormous pane of glass that frames a panoramic view of the Fifth Avenue shopping district.

My bedroom smells like sweet cinnamon when we come in and the king size bed is loaded with a dozen of new freshly laundered pillows over my Yves Delorme rose-coloured Egyptian cotton four-hundred thread-count sheets. I feel tense as I expect the sheets of Orson's past and police reports to be scattered all over my desk since I remember not putting it away last night but luckily when I come through the door, every file and papers are neatly tucked away in a drawer by the maid.

I have never felt so grateful for the maid in my life.

My shoulders relax as I sit Orson down on my bed. "Wait here while I shower," I say softly, all demure. He likes it when I play innocent. Because he knows I'm not.

There's that smile- his rosebud mouth shaping into a smirk, "Can I join you?" he asks, tone deceptively pure.

And I say nothing, slowly removing my school top and skirt, before grabbing his hand and leading him into my cavernous marble bathroom, feeling all out of sorts, breathless, panicky and relaxed at the same time. Having Orson Calloway come into something as personal as my room, my space, the same place I've plotted the demise of all his friends creates an unease at the bottom of my spine. But I can't show that something is wrong- or not he'll suspect.

So I bring him into my bathroom and kiss him and distract him with ass while my brain grasps for a leverage to hold on. I feel my sanity slipping; I've thought I had everything figured out. Orson is the culprit. Orson was the culprit, I thought as his hands lather my body in my favourite shea-butter soap, but now he's the victim. This whole time.

There's a high chance that Delia Calloway knows of my plan. She knows I'm out for revenge. I'm out for Orson's blood. That is why she paints me in a graceful light, tells Orson she likes me the most out of all his girlfriends because I've been unknowingly doing her bidding this whole time. She hopes I'm successful in my vendetta against Orson Calloway- because that works perfectly in line with what she wants, which is to remove Orson as an heir to the Calloway fortune.

However, what she doesn't know is that I know about the real nature of Orson's mother's death and her involvement. I know about the attempt on Orson's life and the unfortunate ramifications of having my parents involved. And this will be my trump card against Delia Calloway and her crimes against the world.

-

Ah BLOOD ON THE LEAVES IS ending y'all :(