Hadley, Tessa, and I follow the flow of students into the school. Tessa barely bids us goodbye before heading off towards the middle school section of the school, leaving both of us to face the music. The hallways are obnoxiously noisy with resonating echoes of the buzzing chatter of students as they fled into their classrooms. The windows allow the cloudy, ambient light into the corridors through tinted windows and the ever-present smell of chlorine floor cleaner has always failed to give the school a vibrant personality.

Hadley and I head over to the school's reception to pick up our schedule and get assigned lockers. Even though it's been a few years since I've left Kensington, I manage to find the administration office with no problem. The Associate Principal, Mrs. Abbey, has the fakest smile I'd ever seen on a person upon meeting me, then launched into long-winded explanations on how the school was amazing, the activities were amazing, the people were amazing and everything was so amazing, et cetera.

I'm surprised she doesn't recognize me completely- she calls me Amory, regards me as a normal person, doesn't realize I'm actually Bronte Emerson, the girl whose parents died in a car accident the same year her brother committed suicide.

I had to pinch myself to stay awake, forcing my eyes to open every time they droop from the early start of the day.

"So Amory, is this your first time attending a private Catholic school?" Mrs Abbey asked, "I'm aware that you were in Beverly Hills High before moving to high school."

I jerk my head into a curt nod, remembering the story, "Yes, this is my first time attending a private school."

"Well, I hope that you'll come to enjoy the experience of Christian schooling with your fellow peers and regale the benefits of what a school uniform can do for you."

Oh, you have no idea. I fake a smile that could possibly surpass the fakeness of hers. "Will do, Mrs Abbey."

As I exit out of her office, carrying a bunch of new cumbersome notebooks the school has given me for free, along with my new assigned locker number (which I've purposely changed by hacking into the school system to make sure my locker is right next to Carmen, Orson and their merry band of mindless followers) and my schedule, I pass by the receptionist only to come crashing into a girl who was running towards my direction, sending all my agendas and blank notebooks flying across the carpet floor.

"Oh my god, I didn't mean to- Amory?"

My ears perk at the sound of my name and I tilt my head up. Luciana Santiago stands right in front of me. You can't really miss her. When she does show up, she shows up. After all, she's a curvaceous Latina with long hair that falls down her back with newly acquired auburn highlights. Her dark chestnut roots show on purpose—nothing about Luciana is an accident—and today she's attached a plastic hair clip in the shape of a bow to a few strands. She's wearing black thigh high socks, a tight white button-down that looks like it's a size too small so it stretches over her C-cup breasts, displaying an outline of a black lacey bra, and a pair of black clogs. Her skin, which has been heavily Pan-Caked and powdered to cover an outbreak of acne, is bronze and gold, and her lips are painted bright red. She has beautiful round cat-like brown eyes, which she has carefully made up, but the focus is on her mouth. She's all lipstick. Red lipstick, especially. And talk.

"Hey," I bend down to grab a notebook as Luciana helps me and collect a few books that have fallen astray, "Lucia- Luce, what are you doing here?"

"I go to school here," she explains, "Do you-"

"New student," I cut her off, sparing her the technicalities.

"Oh my God!" she exclaims, shaking her head, "What a coincidence."

"Luce!" Parker Holtz emerges from the door. Even with very little audience, consisting of a few of the administrative staff and the receptionist, Parker makes her entrance. 

Willowy and slender, she makes her entrance known by walking across the hallway in a pair of elevated black Prada loafers that click across the floor with a rhythm. Her blonde hair frames her face in a golden halo and today she loops it up in a top knot. She's incredibly pale, positively glowing in the light, and her makeup is not too much, only a hint of a winged liquid eyeliner flicking across, commanding concentration to her icy blue eyes. Parker rocks her buttoned-down with a few buttons undone, showing her chest of orange freckles speckled over her pale skin like stars on a white sky. A shawl-collared black Balmain tuxedo jacket is tied messily across her slim waist, her plaid skirt hitched high up showing sheer white Wolford tights.

"Who are you talking to?"

"Parker, this is the girl I told you about!" Luciana bounces on the ball of her feet as Parker sullenly saunters over. Parker's gaze transfixed on me, tearing me apart piece by piece, examining every article of my clothing. I feel like a science experiment under a microscope under those arctic eyes- a flicker of amusement, distrust and curiosity crackles across her face but it is brief, like a strike of lightning- she has profound control over her features and she's an adroit expert at not letting people read her unless you try hard. She's stunning, yet cold, and she doesn't trust me as easily as Luciana does. Understandable. She's not a merit scholar for nothing. "Amory Scout."

"Really?" Parker's thin pink lips shape the two syllables. "Amory, is it?"

I refuse to let myself feel intimidated. I narrow my eyes neatly, eyes squinting at Parker as if I'm registering with the same amount of distaste. "Yes," I confidently say. I don't sound like I'm wheedling, like I'm not trying to coax for her approval, showing her we're equals. "Who are you?"

Parker Holtz arches an eyebrow. Her face seems to contain a hint of slight shock; she never has anyone treat her like she's second class. 

"Parker," she enunciates her words languidly and every one of them seems to be adorned in a drawl of a Long Island accent, making everything she says a little more seductive, "Holtz."

"So, Ames- can I call you Ames?" babble Luciana excitedly, "Where's your locker?"

"Hmm," I flip open the school's customized agenda they've given me and reveal a sheet of information plastered on the agenda's cover. It contains my new school email and the logistics of how to log into the system, my schedule, information about how to sign up for after-school activities, so on and so forth. "It's 2956."

"Shit," Luciana's eyes widen, "That's right in between Parker and Carmen! Ha, oh my gosh, this is even weirder."

"Hmm," Parker hums, "It is, isn't it?"

A prickle of fear plucks at my heartstring but I maintain my composure by shrugging, "Yeah, it is. Do you know where it is?"

"Yeah sure," Luciana bobs her head eagerly, "I'll show you around- after all, I owe you. Hey! You should totally sit with us at lunch-"

"No," orders Parker firmly. It is the first time I've seen her break out of her Ice Queen formation by expressing a strong, heavy emotion- eyebrows frowning, lips tight. "We'll be breaking Carmen's protocol, Luce- we can't just invite her without Carmen's consent-"

"Oh fuck off," laughs Luciana as we exit out of the administrative office into the hallway. "Carmen will be cool with it-"

"Um, do you know what she's like-"

"It's fine, guys," I interrupt, the acceptable response. I'm playing my part well, am I? "I'll just sit with whoever at lunch-"

"No," Luciana firmly cuts me off, "I refuse to let that happen. Your first day at Kensington and you have to sit alone? No. I mean, you saved my life-" Parker rolls her eyes, "-so like this is me paying my debts."

We journey down the hallway that divides the two rows of lockers like a neat hair parting, frequently glancing at the allocated classrooms for different subjects and trying to find where my first class is supposed to be. Usually, the other students don't notice me too much. Before in my years here, they didn't and when I first arrived, they didn't. They were absorbed into their own conversations to even realize I was there.

Now walking down with Parker Holtz and Luciana Santiago, I'm all they noticed. The sudden scrutiny makes me uncomfortable- I've never been subjected to so many wondering eyes before- the girls are dissecting me with envy, the boys with curiosity. I'm uncomfortable but I sort of like it.

Before I didn't mind being invisible, because if I drew too much attention I would begin to feel stressed out by the number of eyes focused on me, observing me, waiting for me to say something clever or cool when I would just make a fool out of myself. First impressions were monumentally the most nerve-wracking things in life in my opinion. But if I want to get in with their group, blend into their ranks and finish my task, I have to act like I'm cool with the attention, cool with the spotlight.

"It's fine" I pat Luciana's arm. I hear the girls break out in whispers, "Who is she?" and "How does she know Luciana?" I ignore them and continue to smile at Luciana, "Really, I can-"

"Bullshit," Luciana replies, "You're sitting with us."

And they play right into my hands, like putty.

-

Songs roll in the vast, cold space of the church, tens of voices echo in unison, like calls in a well; they are so delightful to listen to, that I almost forgot about the intense aversion I have towards the owners of the voices.

It's the first period on a Monday morning, the first day of school, and Kensington Prep is notorious for starting their weeks with Prayers, saying that it's 'good for the moral soul'. I remember the tedious sermons and prayer sessions I have to get through every Monday morning, listening to the choir sing and nuns bark out the verse of the week, reminding children to perform their best and perform for the Lord. I remember hating it, thinking how hypocritical it is, and my opinion doesn't change now.

Carmen Calloway and the choir girls are all lined up at the front of the podium, clothed in those almost sinister robes, instigating me into an eerie discomfort, as if they are about to surround me and hoist me up to forcefully take him to some kind of sacrificing ritual. Carmen is gorgeous, even in thick heavy black robes. She's so naturally beautiful- one of those girls that didn't really need makeup. Her cheekbones protrude as she opens her mouth widely and pours out her voice in harmony with the other girls; a sound so pure and sweet that you'll never think she has the capability to wish you never existed.

Light peers through the sharply cut, coloured glass of the tall windows, falling on the choir's pallid faces, encasing them in a surreal light, almost offering them an angelic image that could have been named blasphemous by the people who actually know what is truly hiding behind those masks of society.

Luciana sits right next to me, back rigid, hands placed together on her lap. She looks like such a good little church girl it's so hard to imagine that I saw her in a short mini dress at a nightclub just a few weeks ago. Parker is examining her nails, bored out of her mind as the singing continues.

I turn my head to the front and lift my eyes to see Aidan Donovan in the front row, along with Phineas Yeong- no Hanif Rahim, as his Muslim parents had almost sued the school for trying to enforce religious studies upon him. Aidan Donovan is a tall, imposing, dark-skinned guy, who had a perilous allure and a dominance that could be compared to Orson's. Boyfriend to the one and only Carmen Calloway, how they've committed a staggering three years is a mystery to all.

Yeong and the other shorter, simpler-in-appearance Hanif, whose absence is palpable, seem a tad more approachable and light-hearted as compared to Orson and Aidan. Speaking of Orson, there's also the unsettling fact that I could find no trace of him among the other boys of the pack. Since Kindergarten, Orson usually sat at the front, leading the whole procession with an infuriating arrogance, but this time, he's nowhere to be seen.

There's only the melody of the choir now, flowing into my ears, louder and louder, gradually evolving into a screeching, the screeching of the girls. God, how long till this prayer session is over?

Then suddenly, Orson Calloway makes his appearance in the middle of the ceremony. Climbing on the stairs behind the priest like a guardian, with an absolute tranquillity, steady feet and proud stance, and he looks even fiercer, dressed all in black, from head-to-toe. Just black, an almost disturbing contrast with the pallor of his face. It makes him look like a mon rather than a church boy.

He isn't smiling though, to my faded bewilderment. There's pride, clearly embedded into his expression, but it's more like a cold pride. Judgemental, even aggressive, daring anyone to defy him. His eyes glint when they fall on his friends, placed in the first row. I could practically feel their fulfillment oozing from their expressions, the gratitude they have for their friend, for his absolute ascent to the top of the social scale, while most boys their age didn't have the slightest idea about the future they wanted.

He's the devil, I have no doubt about it. The devil dressed as an angel.

Orson's lips just barely twitch before he molds his face into stony passiveness once again. He takes his place behind the priest like a shadow, a shadow that will occupy that spot in front of it, one day.

I couldn't pay heed, drifting in and out on the major stages of the ceremony; the choir singing their final song before the priest started his lecture. It doesn't last much, because he slightly backs away to let Orson step to the front of the podium and continue the lecture, which is like a hit in the stomach. Orson Fucking Calloway preaching? This is a joke, this is a joke.

I've known it's bound to happen, but I hadn't thought he'll actually be in that position yet but there he is. Preaching in all his righteousness, as if he has prepared his whole life for it. Orson, the leader of the school, the bully, a preacher.

My hands quake with anger. His voice is secure, clear and thunderous, it echoes in the whole church, reaching every corner. It is as if he's made for it and I'm struck by the cruelty of it.

I cannot unglue his stare from him, couldn't look anywhere else, as Orson strictly stays on the protocol, carving the silence with religious texts and prayers, the words scratching at my sanity. He doesn't flinch as he's holding the discourse, rows and rows of teachings, the sermon seeming interminable by that point. His gaze is unabashedly examining the church hall, every face that watched him, like he can flaunt his hypocrisy for every student who knows his true lifestyle- pouring millions a night at clubs and strip joints, rolling and drinking like no tomorrow.

I shake my head at the sheer audacity of it. I'm breathing hard and a hand squeezes mine. Luciana. I crane my head to look and she regards me with concern, mouthing, "You okay?" I nod and give her a smile.

Act normal for fuck's sake, I scold myself.

At the corner of my eye, Parker brings her hand to her mouth and I'm confused for a moment until I see a flicker of silver- a flask- and then, Parker's eyes meet mine- panic flash in her blue eyes for a moment and I immediately know what she's thinking. It's either she's going to tell on me or...

I lean it so my mouth is close to her ear, "What kind of alcohol is that?"

"Whiskey," her lips part softly.

A little smirk coil on my mouth. "Mind sharing?"

Suspicion with an underlying emotion of interest spark in her eyes. Then a smile. An exchange. I keep her little secret and she'll like me. Baby steps, people, baby steps. "Of course," she whispers, breathing hot on my ear, as if it's trying to reach within me, to taunt me with the temptation inside the flask. I don't know if I'm alright to go down this slope. "Hide it from Luce, though."

I nod, fingers coiling around the cold flask, and glancing at Luciana, who is still engaged in the choir's singing. Feeling like I'm in the clear, I tilt the whiskey down my throat. It burns me and it tastes like acid but I swallow willingly. Parker watches in slow amusement as I chug it under the watchful eyes of the church. Am I sinful enough for you now?

I take another smooth swig before passing it to Parker, who giggles, slightly buzzed. Is she drunk already? At a chapel on a Monday morning?

I grin back at Parker and lick my lips, lapping at the leftover taste of the whiskey, liking how it tastes like gasoline. I like my alcohol to burn me when it goes down; I don't like gin or rum, it's too sweet.

Parker's hand pushing the flask in my hand, asking if I want one more.

I do. 

-