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Wyatt Preston
As I drove through the sprawling country club estate, I couldn’t help but think that there was such a thing as too much money. Did grass really have to be that green? I mean, kids in Africa didn’t even have water and these fancy pants were worried about a dry blade of grass? People and their priorities. I shrugged my shoulder to hide the obvious chip I had growing there and parked my sedan at the front of the valet booth. A young teenage kid walked up, clearly unenthused with my generic vehicle – he was probably used to sports cars and convertibles. Sorry, kid, I thought as I threw him the keys.
I jogged up the marble steps and couldn’t help but smile when I saw the event board: “Victoria ‘Tori’ Elliott Birthday: in the Main Hall.” God, even her name made go all doe-eyed
