At the Nouveau Academy of the Arts and Sciences, all students are required to take either a music or art class before graduating. When Kennedy Marx is denied of her request to switch out of Music Theory, vivid details from her past as a piano prodig...
Spotted on the lawn, Governor King's son, Griffin, joins Nouveau for his senior year. We're all wondering the same thing. Why did he transfer from Kingston Prep? An insider source tells me his move has expulsion written all over it.
yours truly, Queen B.
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For as long as I could physically remember, the commencement of the school year had always been deemed a second hell, a dreaded day where students wove in and out of their new classes still experiencing the after effects of a summer haze. Accustomed to nocturnal hours, students were physically present but mentally vacant by the time seventh period rolled around. The narrow spectrum of their brain capacity at that point consisted solely of counting down the minutes until the dismissal bell blared through the speakers, signaling a very much anticipated end to the repetitive cycle alternatively called academia.
I'd been awake for thirty minutes, the digital clock on my nightstand marking a quarter to eight. The official start of senior year was only fifteen minutes away, but it had truly begun weeks ago when college portals opened online. Applying to colleges had basically become all about completing an online profile for a dating website. It was all about how well you could sell yourself without reeking of desperation.
Some students were already starting to make their way to class, the muffled sound of brand new shoes striking the carpet seeping through the crack under my door. Snippets of hushed conversations about the new psychology teacher flirted with my ears. Habitually, my eyes drifted to the pair of ballet flats I'd harbored since the middle of sophomore year. The black leather had stretched out significantly, creasing where my toes began to mold into the soles of the shoes.
My morning thus far was nothing like the opening scenes in the movies. I'd woken up only to slip into the same uniform for the fourth year in a row: a pleated skirt with our school's gray blazer over a white blouse of my choice. The only soundtrack ushering in the background as I pulled a comb through the knotted strands of my hair was the soft purrs of engines spurring to life and cutting of beyond the window.
Through the tinted glass, I watched a range of cars from cherished family vans to luxurious sports cars frame the circular drive in the front of the school. Families lined their vehicles up behind the golden iron letters that spelled out The Nouveau Academy for the Arts and Sciences. Our motto, Victoria, Veritas Et Virtus, was inscribed underneath into the stone, a daily reminder that each of us was expected to leave Nouveau with nothing less than victory, truth, and virtue.
New and returning students lugged their belongings across the freshly mowed lawn, down the corridor, and into the hallways where rooms were separated by grade level. The rooms at Nouveau were comparable to a four star hotel suites, each equipped with a personal walk-in closet and bathroom. As a boarding school, most of the dorms remained occupied for the entire span of the school year, but some students commuted to and from every morning. They tended to live on the outskirts of Brighton, a town associated with utmost wealth in New York.
