ACE.
ACE
ARIA’S POV.
I picked up the scissors after deliberating for the past 72 hours.
I watched my hair fall in dark clumps around my feet. Watch it lie there on the floor, unmoving like it wasn’t just part of me seconds ago.
I hold on to the tears that threaten to spill as I make it all the way to the last strand. I stare at myself in the foggy mirror of my bathroom.
My chest feels heavy, but I let out a tiny dry laughter. I burst into tiny sobs almost immediately, and then laugh again. A wave of emotions coursing through me as I think about how unfortunate I must be to be in such a situation.
I lean my forehead against the mirror and breathe until my laughing-crying stops. The girl staring back at me, has the same eyes I recognise, but the face seemed to have changed a bit. Not as much as I expected though.
Memories of my father come flooding back to me. The way his face lights up when he narrates to me how the headmaster himself pressed the form into his hands the week after my father saved his life.
How he always advises me to take my education seriously, how he goes on and on, saying that Scottwood was the best and he was glad I’ll be going to such an esteemed college after all.
Little did he know that Crestwood had become an all-male institution.
Sometimes I wonder what he would have said to me, if he had been given a chance to speak to me before he was executed.
I wrap the binding tight across my chest, practice breathing through the compression. I've been doing it for three weeks now. I can handle it. I pack my journal into the false bottom of my duffel bag, slide the strap over my shoulder, and look at myself one more time.
"Ace," I say out loud. Just to hear it. "My name is Ace."
The girl in the mirror says nothing back. But she doesn't flinch, which is good enough.
I turn off the bathroom light and step out.
***
Crestwood Academy sits on a hill like it's embarrassed by the rest of the world.
The gates are iron and tall, with the school's crest in the center: a shield, a sword, two Latin words I don't bother to translate. The stone buildings behind them are old and grey and heavy. Ivy on the walls. Manicured grass. Windows that cost more than everything my father and I owned combined.
I've been standing outside the gate for three minutes longer than I should.
"Are you planning to go in, or are you just admiring the architecture?"
I spin around. There's a boy leaning against the stone pillar to my left, arms crossed, watching me with wide curious eyes. He's got a soft round face, reading glasses pushed up on his forehead, and a Crestwood blazer already wearing him instead of the other way around. His tie is loosened at the collar.
"I was thinking," I say.
"Looked like freezing to me." He pushes off the pillar and extends a hand. "Leo Park. Third room on the left in Ashford House, which is where you're going, because I recognize the placement tag on your bag. I asked for a single room and they gave me a roommate, so I've spent the last twelve hours being deeply bitter about it. But I suppose you seem harmless enough." He gives me a once-over. "Mostly."
I shake his hand almost confidently, "Ace Calloway."
He tilts his head slightly. "You smell like sandalwood."
I keep my face neutral. "It's my soap."
"Interesting choice for a boy. Most guys smell like Axe body spray and poor decisions." He picks up his own bag and nods toward the gate. "Come on, then. Registration closes at three."
We walked up the long stone path side by side. The campus spreads out around us, green and perfect and intimidating. Boys in blazers move in clusters, most of them older, most of them polished in the way that money polishes people. They carry themselves like the school already belongs to them.
It might. But it doesn't belong to me yet.
Leo talks the whole way to the registration desk inside the main hall. He talks about his study schedule, about the dining hall hours, about a list he's apparently already made of the top ten things he wants to change about the school's academic curriculum. I let his voice fill up the quiet and I look around and I take note of exits, bathroom locations, the distance from the dormitory hall to the sports wing.
My father taught me that. He called it tactical awareness. I call it survival.
At the registration desk, a tired-looking administrator slides me my room key without really looking at me. "Ace Calloway. Ashford House, Room 7. Welcome to Crestwood."
I take the key. I'm in.
I let out the breath I've been holding for six hours.
