At the time, my girlfriends were, like, “The Venetian boys are sooooo hot! We won’t tell if you cheat on Liam!” However, (a) I’m faithful, and (b) every single guy I met was five-foot-three. I was a head taller than all of them. Again, no.
Anyway, my wrist is stacked with Cartier Love bracelets, and not the weird, breakfast cereal–type jewelry this girl has piled on, like she’s wearing a bunch of Cheerios on a string or something. She seems the type to own four T-shirts that she washes in the sink at a youth hostel, whereas my walk-in closet’s the size of a studio apartment. Even clad in my team uniform—a North Shore first day tradition—I have better style.
If I had to describe myself/my life, I’d say I’m kind of a suburban version of Kendall Jenner, except I have two brothers and no sisters. Also, I’m not forced to spend holidays with Kanye West. Can you imagine how annoying that must be, enduring a festive meal while trapped at the table with him? Oh, those poor things! I’m sure he’s always all, “I’m the greatest artist who ever lived!” And poor Kendall is, like, “Bible, Yeezus, but I asked you to please pass the yams.”
Anyway, when this girl looks at me, she probably can’t see past the symmetrical face or enviable accessories, but there’s more to me than that. I’m not just the queen of last year’s Junior Prom and not just the girl the guys want to get with and girls want to be.
I also have a 3.96 GPA from the most competitive high school in the country.
Baccalaureate, baby. Beauty and brains? Yeah, I’m the full package.
Which is why she might secretly aspire to be me.
But if I could offer her a bit of advice?
It’s way easier to just be you.
Cordy
7:26 AM
be brilliant
Simone
7:26 AM
will try
Cordy
7:27 AM
if u cant be brilliant then dont fuck it up
Simone
7:27 AM
miss u
Cordy
7:28 AM
xoxoxox
5
SIMONE
CHASTAIN
“We breed excellence here at North Shore High School.”
I nod instead of saying anything, because how do I even respond to a statement like that?
I also nodded when Vice Principal Torres said the same thing as he welcomed me to the school. He clasped my hand and nearly crushed it in a crippling shake. Then my guidance counselor, Mr. Gorton, went for the conversational trifecta. WTF? Are they all working from the same script?
And how does one breed excellence here, anyway?
In a lab? In a test tube? Or is it more like in a barn?
What does she even mean?
The she in this case is Mallory Goodman, the stick-thin girl in a field hockey uniform who interprets my silence as complicity. While I’m not naturally quiet, she’s been plowing over me like a conversational bulldozer, razing everything in its path.
Is it that I make her nervous?
No, impossible. She’s tall and trim and bloody perfect and I am none of those things. I’m small and arty and far more likely to pick up a sketchpad than a piece of sporting equipment. I can only catch cold and can only throw shade. (Really, not even great at that.)
Feels like every answer I’ve given her has been wrong, like when she asked where I live. Told her we’d bought our house from the Barat family. She gave me the oddest look, and that’s when she really launched into her monologue.
Mallory’s the president of the NSHS Novus Orsa Club (“Latin for new beginnings,” she explained) so she’s showing me the campus, even though I’d begged off an escort, explained I could make due because of my fine sense of direction. Last year, when my mum and dad were delayed getting to Art Week, I explored Berlin for two days on my own before they finally arrived and I didn’t know a lick of German. Got by on pointing, smiling, and Google Translator, although most people I met spoke brilliant English anyway.
However, Mr. Gorton insisted I have a guide, so here we are, Mallory and me...breeding excellence. Together.
I needed guidance only while dressing, apparently. Picked out my favorite tee and scarf and skirted leggings, figuring I couldn’t go wrong with such basics.
Wrong.
Every girl not in a team uniform is clad in small shorts or a flippy dress with bare shoulders, tottering around on sandals with sky-scraping wedge heels. I’m overdressed and pale and out of place. If there were a book on how to blend in here, that’s what I could have used. I suddenly miss my hateful old school uniform.
Truth is, I’m overwhelmed.
This place is huge to the point of ridiculous, spread across twenty acres with a dozen outbuildings. Nothing prepared me for this. Yes, I’m a US citizen (technically, I hold dual passports), but my only experience with American high schools comes from this week’s binge watch of old episodes of Glee. Trust me, William McKinley bears zero resemblance. With all the French Renaissance–style red brick and white stone facings enveloping vast squares of tidy green lawns, NSHS looks a lot more like Lady Margaret Hall, a college at Oxford.
Mallory continues, pressing a hand against her chest like she’s pledging allegiance. Her identical gold bracelets slide down her narrow wrist and clank together musically. “In this school, and let’s be honest, in this town, being good isn’t sufficient.”
Suspect Mallory takes herself awfully seriously.
She goes on like this, but I’m distracted from her monologue when I spot my neighbor Owen Foley-Feinstein strolling across the quad. He looks like he’s listening to a jam band, grooving down the path despite not wearing any earbuds. Some people are just naturally fluid like that. He has a languid grace, all loose-limbed. Reminds me of the jungle cats we fed at that sanctuary in South Africa. He flashes me a big grin and holds up a peace sign when I wave.
Owen and I met while I was out walking Warhol, our new rescue puppy. He lives on the corner of my new street. He thought my dog was awesome, laughing at the pup’s underbite, which I so adore. Warhol’s teeth cause his bottom lip to jut out in a way that perpetually makes me want to kiss his sweet face. Owen mentioned passing us the number to a good canine orthodontist and it took me a moment to understand he was joking. (Teeth are a very serious business in this country.)
As we chatted, Owen complimented my stack of bracelets, piled up and down my wrists in a profusion of beads and hammered silver and leather. He was impressed when he learned that I’d made them. I told him I fancied his dreadlocks and he seemed genuinely pleased. I get the feeling he doesn’t hear much positive feedback about them. (Suspect there’s little room for nonconformity at NSHS, what with the bred excellence and all.)
Seeing Owen reminds me I have a handful of Hindu prayer stones he might want. I drilled the holes too wide in these longish, tubular beads and now they don’t lie right when strung. But they’d be perfect to weave into his hair. I make a mental note to drop them off at his place sometime soon.
Mallory frowns as she follows my line of sight to Owen. She clears her throat and continues, “As I was saying, we’re the best in whatever we do. Always. Our parents expect nothing less.”