When pride collides

Chapter Four

Chapter 4 – From 10A to Starlight

Anastasia Michaels didn’t come from money.

She came from a two-bedroom apartment above a laundromat in East Austin, a small oasis packed with both charm and chaos. The kind of place where the walls were too thin and the floors too loud, and the neighbors argued like they were auditioning for a soap opera. Every evening, the echoes of shouting filtered through her ceiling, punctuated by the rhythmic thumping of children running in circles above her. Though disconcerting at first, she learned to tune it out, finding a strange comfort in the cacophony of life surrounding her.

The apartment itself was a mixture of warmth and wear. The paint on the walls was a faded cream, the kind that had lost its shine with years but still retained an endearing quality. Framed photos of Cassie, her mum and adventures filled the spaces between the windows, noting moments in time that felt frozen yet vibrant. A vibrant slam of the recycling bin from below would remind her that the world moved outside, that this space was just a temporary pause in a series of challenging but beautiful acts.

She would often watch the neighborhood from her window as she sipped her morning coffee, letting the rich aroma fill her senses. The laundromat on the ground floor was a constant hub of activity, its machines humming and rumbling like a gentle invasion of fulfillment. From her perch, she could see families coming and going, their laundry baskets brimming with colorful clothes and the laughter of children filled the air. On busy weekends, the cycle of life below felt like an intricate dance she was grateful to observe.

Her neighbors were a mixed bunch, each with stories woven into theirs. The couple next door, for instance, had a fascination with classic rock music, often filling the halls with the sounds of old vinyl records spinning out notes of nostalgia. She once heard them arguing fiercely one night about a song’s lyrics, turning into a playful debate that ended in laughter, and she chuckled as she heard them harmonizing together soon after. Across the hall lived an elderly woman who often tended to her plants on the balcony, nurturing life in miniature while sharing her wisdom of years gone by through brief but precious encounters.

Though the clutter and clamor of the building could sometimes be overwhelming, it was a community of sorts; mismatched but united. On particularly rough days, she found solace in her neighbors’ chatter, an odd kind of support that came from shared space. They were a reflection of the multifaceted life she led — vibrant, loud, messy, and real.

As she prepared for her day, she often took a moment to appreciate the sun filtering through her window at dawn, casting a gentle glow on the worn furniture, thoughtfully assembled to make her space feel more like home. It served as a reminder of beginnings and stillness amid the hustle and bustle of the city. The vibrant vibrancy of East Austin, with its eclectic vibe and sense of freedom, complemented her spirit, pushing her towards dreams yet unfulfilled.

Leaving her apartment sometimes felt like embarking on an adventure, each step down the creaking staircase an opportunity for new interactions. The hum of motorcycles nearby, the scent of breakfast tacos wafting through the air, and the lively chatter of pedestrians always set her spirit alight as she stepped out into the sun.

She knew that while the apartment held its quirkiness, the experience was a canvas where she could paint her dreams and create her memories. It wasn't just an apartment; it was a chapter, woven into the rich tapestry of her life in a city that promised so much more beyond the walls that contained her.

Room 10A. That’s where she learned silence could be louder than noise.

Her mom—Caroline—was a nurse who worked the night shift and smelled like antiseptic and worry. There was no dad. No “he left when I was young” or “he visits sometimes” story. Just nothing. Her birth certificate might as well have read “donor unknown.”

But Anastasia didn’t spend time wondering who he was.

She was too busy trying to become someone herself.

Someone her mum is going to be so proud of.

By fourteen, she had a GPA higher than most kids could dream of.

By fifteen, she’d hacked the school firewall to get longer library access.

And by sixteen, she was applying to colleges that didn’t even offer scholarships to the poor or the middle class.

She wasn’t a nerd in the pocket-protector sense. No. She was the cool kind of nerd—the silent threat in AP classes. The girl who could dismantle a flawed argument in five words or less and make the whole classroom rethink their life choices.

She have only one friend who is Cassandra Drew.

Cassandra is not just her friend, Cassandra is her family and she likes Cassandra so much. Cassandra was there for her when the world seems like it was crumbling.

Cassandra is the shoulder she cries on, She is everything to her in this world, when she was about to enter depression, Cassandra was there for her, When she was hurt, it is Cassandra she saw, When it seems like things are not working for her, Cassandra stood by her. When she is hungry, Cassandra provided food for her, When she needed love, Cassandra showed her love and she love Cassandra more than anything in this world.

She didn’t force respect, She gained respect.

And in her world, that was enough.

The application to Starlight College wasn’t hers.

It was her counselor’s idea.

“They take one full-ride scholar every year,” Ms. Barrett said, sliding the brochure across the table. “You’d be the first one in our school to even try.”

Anastasia looked at the glossy paper.

Gold trim. Embossed letters. A quote in Latin she didn’t care to translate.

“Seems pretentious.”

Ms. Barrett laughed. “It is. But that doesn’t mean you can’t outsmart it.”

So Anastasia filled it out. Wrote an essay that would’ve made grown politicians cry. Attached her grades from first year in Highschool till her Last year of High School, a list of awards, and a letter from a teacher who called her “brilliant, but terrifying.”

Then forgot about it.

The acceptance email came at 3:17 a.m. on a Sunday.

Her mom was just coming in from the hospital.

“What’s that?” Caroline asked, groggy-eyed and pulling off her sneakers.

Anastasia stared at the screen.

“Apparently,” she said, blinking, “I’m going to Starlight.”

Caroline dropped her shoe.

“What?!”

“I think I won the academic Hunger Games.”

Caroline didn’t scream or cry. She just sat down next to her and read the letter twice.

Then whispered, “Damn right, you are.”

“Ana baby, you also have to be careful there, cause I heard that school is for the wealthiest of the wealthiest not for people like us.”

The first day at Starlight felt like walking onto the set of a high-budget movie she didn’t audition for.

Ferraris lined the curb. A drone flew overhead, livestreaming arrivals. Students were stepping out of Bentleys in slow motion, like a commercial for cologne that didn’t exist yet.

Anastasia had arrived in a rideshare.

The driver had tried to drop her at the back of the campus, assuming she worked there.

She’d tipped him extra for honesty.

Her dorm room looked like a boutique hotel. Marble counters. Plush bedding. An espresso machine she didn’t know how to use.

Her roommate never showed.

Later, she learned her name was Lacey and that she’d demanded a solo room because she was “emotionally allergic to stress.” Whatever that meant.

So Anastasia kept to herself.

Unpacked her clothes—none of which had designer labels.

Lined her books along the windowsill.

Set up her laptop with military precision.

And started watching.

Everything at Starlight had a name.

Not just people—things.

Tables. Corners. Benches.

There was “Royal Row”—the hallway the elite used. “Peasant Pass”—what they called the regular route to the library. “The Throne”—Zayden’s spot in the cafeteria, which no one else dared sit in, even when he wasn’t there.

And then there was “The Showcase.”

Every Monday, students posted their weekly schedules on the school app, which somehow turned into a status symbol. Classes were ranked by exclusivity. Having back-to-back meetings with elite faculty meant power. Having lunch alone meant social suicide.

Anastasia ignored all of it.

She picked classes for their content.

Which—apparently—was hilarious.

By the second week, someone tried to prank her by leaving a bottle of generic shampoo on her desk with a note: “Welcome to the budget section.”

She used it.

Because it actually smelled great.

And because letting it bother her would be giving them power.

Which she didn’t do.

She did not care about any of their pranks, cause she is built for more than that.

One afternoon in English Lit,which was meant for both the freshers and the sophomore year, the professor asked, “What does Gatsby’s death symbolize?”

Before anyone else could answer, Anastasia raised her hand.

“That chasing a dream built on lies eventually kills you,” she said. “No matter how shiny it looks.”

A few students blinked.

Someone whispered, “Whoa.”

The professor smiled slowly.

“Correct. And... poetic.”

Zayden, sitting in the back row like a bored lion, tilted his head.

He hadn’t been listening.

Now he was.

He wasn’t interested

But he wants to know what she is built of.

.