The Class Reject: A Damsel in Disguise (Featured Story)

Chapter 2

Headmistress Castro was a cynical woman who swore she bared no relation to the actual dictator. When she went on an extended spiel about upcoming events and the work she and the other faculty did to keep Cuba—St. Rosemunde—only moderately shitty, Miren fought the urge to narrow her eyes, even if the stage light was already blinding.

If they cared I wouldn't be terrorized on a daily basis, she clenched her jaw as she focused on the back wall of the theater. Still smiling, of course.

"Anyway, without further ado, will Headmaster Edsel share some words?"

There was a roar of applause from the boys (and some swooning from the girls) as the younger man stepped onto the stage. He shared some words about the three candidates from his institution, and how honored he was to be part of the inaugural class of the award.

"Everyone give a standing ovation to entrepreneur, humanitarian and philanthropist, Imani Higgins!"

Clapping erupted as the woman, who was about fifty years and of chocolate-brown complexion, took the stage. Miren's heart was threatening to explode as she took the microphone. In moments, she would matter—all of her suffering would finally be validated.

And she couldn't fucking wait.

"Is that the best you can do?" The students cheered louder, and her vibrant laugh filled the room. "That's better!"

She then turned to the six students on stage, pointed to them like she was the host admiring a bunch of pageant contestants. "These students are among some of the best and brightest—and half of them aren't even seniors! When I was struggling to raise my children as a single parent in the 90s, I fought tooth-and-nail to make sure that my daughters would receive the best quality education here. They received a full-scholarship, and now my little Annie has just started medical school in John Hopkins, and Abigail has just graduated from Harvard Law." She nodded. "These achievements would not have been possible without a strong foundation at St. Rosemunde." More clapping ensued.

"However, I cannot forget the boys at Rinzen Academy," she began, motioning to Parker, the jock, and a dark-haired boy Miren recognized by face only. "I know you're competitive nature with the girls has driven both you and St. Rosemunde to be the best private schools in Connecticut. And in addition to my $1 million dollar donation to your institution, I will also be offering the Rising Scholar Award to one of your senior students."

A female student rose up, the senior class president, Jemma. One of the Wicked Bitch's friends. She smiled brightly like the airheaded pageant girl she was, and present a platter that housed two shining, gold trophies. Miren tried to contain the eagerness in her eyes as she imagined the trophy in her hands. Triumphant. And most importantly, better than Penelope.

"We'll let the boys go first," Imani said. "This award will act as a quality distinction to wherever college you chose to apply to. Not to mention a nice little $10,000 scholarship and $10,000 toward a charity of your choice, where you will be able to volunteer with this summer." She picked up one of the trophies, which resembled an Oscar, but with a gold-platted person holding a miniature globe. "Although many of you students do happen to be well off, I believe that no one is entitled to anything. Know that everything you've done here is your achievement. And today we celebrate your merit and potential. So can I have a drum roll?"

Miren sized up the male competition. It was probably obvious who'd win, but she didn't know if it was just her own crush-based biases. Still, with the exception of the jock boy, dark-hair, and Penelope, the rest of the candidates were either minorities or scholarship students—the perfect poster children for such an award. Like Parker joked, his half-blackness could be a blessing and a burden. Then he had that whole painfully charming/attractive thing going on, which is why Miren wasn't surprised when Imani called out his name over the drums.

His smug grin was even wider as he reached out to hug the woman before accepting his award. Pageant girl led him to center stage.

"Now for my lovely ladies." Imani Higgin's gaze was playful, and Miren wanted to feel like the look was for her—that she was part of some inside joke that wasn't at her expense. "This young lady has really impressed me on paper, and I'm sure she's just as amiable toward her fellow classmates. Drum roll, please?"

The corner of Miren's lip jerked—up or down, it couldn't decide, it couldn't make her smile or frown. Afterall, Imani could have been talking about her as much as she wasn't. And instead of getting on with the announcement, the woman apparently liked watching the girls (or probably just Miren) squirm. Artemis looked as confident and radiant as her namesake would suggest. And Penelope, with an artificial smile that rivaled Pageant Girl, actually looked quite bored in the eyes. Miren gulped—how could the queen bee be bored? That would only be possible if she knew she would win. Her eyes widened in dread.

"Miren Eze!"

The applause was much weaker than the cheers and practical barking the students offered Parker, but Miren took it. She didn't realize how paralyzed she was with surprise/shock/joy/brain death until she started moving, slowly and rather robotically, toward the center stage. She hugged Imani Higgins, breathed in her rose-blossom scent like the moment. Accepted the trophy from Jemma, whose smile actually looked natural, if not compassionate. Did she actually feel some type of joy in her success, or was it just for the camera? Either way, the corners of Miren's lips lifted, mirroring her expression. It didn't matter. She had won.

I FUCKING WON!

Her mind was this sentence, a loop that ran and ran and ran rapidly. The cameraman motioned for her to take center stage, and she followed, like a queen taking her side by her king. She could feel a pair of eyes burning on her form that could have only belonged to one person, but instead of cringing at the intensity like usual, she relished in it. She was on fire today, and Penelope's hatred only fueled her.

"Congrats!" Handsome boy told her. The cameraman urged them to come closer, and Parker wrapped his arm around her. She breathed him in too; he smelled of Old Spice. Over the roar of the joint school bands playing a hybrid of the schools' fight songs, Miren was pretty sure she could hear Penelope screaming. She only hugged onto him harder.

Good.

She knew her moment in the spotlight sun was nearing to an end, what with Imani Higgins moving closer to the prizewinners, their respective headmasters taking the stage, and the subtle shift and eventual release of his hands on her back. But nothing would have prepared her for Parker lifting her chin with the tips of his fingers, and sealing the gap between them by placing his lips on hers.

The world was silent. Except for Chara—she was cheering like a maniac. Then the audience was swooning and loosing their mind—like Miren. He pulled her closer, opened his mouth wider, his lips pressing hungrily against hers. She went along with it, the sensation intoxicating and invigorating; she felt so high that she was convinced she was flying.

"Let me get more of your right side, Miren!"

Miren blinked, realizing it was actually the cameraman who had requested this. And that she wasn't lip-locking lover-boy. Snapping out of the blissful illusion had captivated her, she watched Parker shift from their innocent hug to allow the cameraman to take his shots. She inhaled almost sadly before turning to show off the trophy. The flash was disorienting, but not as much as what came next.

There was a collective gasp in the audience, and before Miren could make any sense of it, she felt it. Liquid of some sort, falling on top of her like an indoor rainstorm.