Page 2 of The Tenth Circle
Passing the kitchen island, I reach for a pancake off the stack she made earlier and take a large chunk out of it, washing it down with whatever’s left of my orange juice from breakfast.
Here’s the thing about new money and prestige—it takes some time for the brain to catch up with living like you have it, and judging by the mess Mom left in this fancy shmancynongalley kitchen, hers most definitely has not. After all, it was Auntie, not her, who bothered to hire a maid.
After another swift “Let’s go,” I polish off her orange juice too before taking another bite of the pancake.
Then I grab another one for the road.
What a damn shocker,Hendrix was right.
There was literally no point to this stupid orientation other than smiling when necessary and being put on display for the less than welcoming teenage residents.
I could feel the excitement radiating off Mom the further we got through the tour—a dream of hers finally coming to fruition after so many years of us living in the shadows of the middle class. Not that she’s making it obvious. Mom’s greatest knack has always been her ability to adapt to any crowd. She’d call it practicality, I’d call it self-preservation.
All that changed was the crowd.
Here’s another fact about the brain when going from rags to riches…it has the tendency to forget the past is never far behind. Even when the footsteps aren’t loud.
We’ve been at this orientation thing for what feels like decades, and only just got outside by the football field for a lunch break.
Which in Hendrix terms meanscigarette break.
I could definitely use one over a meal, and that’s saying a lot because it’s scorching out here and I’m pretty sure I spotted some lasagna in the “Dining Hall” our tour guide introduced us to.
Insert judgmental eye roll.
What the fuck is with all the romanticizing, anyway?
Say it with me, entitled snobs,caf-e-teria.
Anyway, as amazing as air conditioning, lasagna, and a smoke sound, I have to put all three on hold because I’ve somehow managed to snag a friend along the way to this blistering hell of a half-time.
Her name is Rebecca—Bex for short—from the west coast in an area where it never gets as hot as the Devil’s dick outside. Climate shifts don't matter, because I canstillguarantee her skinny ass is not sweating in the same crevices as me.
But she’s cool people. Made this whole experience like ten percent less intolerable. Which is the only reason I’m not ditching her for nicotine and carbs.
I will splurge on a snack, though. I’m no masochist.
Pulling the granola bar I bought at a vending machine next to the “Dining Hall” out of my pocket, I rip it open and bite down on the end of it. There’s some awkward silence between us as I chew—mostly because she looks like she’s about to combust—but whatever, I guess I’ll do the polite thing and spark up some convo.
Looking down at the granola bar, I pick at the chocolate chips. “So what brings you to Riverside?”
She throws her wrapper in the nearby trash can. “I moved here from La Jolla. My stepdad is opening up his own art gallery not far from here.”
I toss some chocolate in my mouth. “Rich stepdad sounds miserable.”
“He’s not too bad.”
Shrugging, I add, “I dig it, then, I guess. I was happy being in public school, though.”
Bex’s face looks as if she’s not going to argue the fact. “I get that. This atmosphere is definitely unique compared to the broken lockers and old desks at my other school.”
This time I add a huff. “I’d take old desks over Mom’s new money any day.”
She shifts in her seat, seeming intrigued. “New money?”
“Yup.” I pop my lips. “Lotto to be exact. Who knew it was actually possible to win?”
“What’s up ladies?” The red headed tour guide appears out of nowhere, a grin plastered to his face as he towers over us.
