Pacific elites

Back in Judyton, my biggest daily crisis was whether the humidity would fry my curls before I reached the flower shop. Here in Los Angeles, my crisis was the suffocating, gold-plated reality of Pacific Crest Academy—and the terrifying fact that a single pleated skirt cost more than Aunt Clara’s entire inventory of imported roses. ​Let’s get one thing straight: I didn’t come to LA just to survive. I came because I was hungry for it. ​Ever since I was little, I used to stare at glossy fashion magazines in the orphan home before Aunt Clara adopted us, daydreaming about what it felt like to have endless money, effortless popularity, and a world that bent to your every mood. Accepting this scholarship wasn't just about my future; it was my chance to step directly inside that dream life, to breathe the same air as the people who owned the world. ​Sure, Aunt Clara warned me before we packed up our lives and moved. “Keep your head down, Keke. Don’t look at them, don’t touch their world, and for God’s sake, leave the past where it belongs.” But Aunt Clara didn’t get it. I admired their wealth, their power, their blinding shine—and a small, ambitious part of me wanted a taste of it so badly it hurt. ​Standing in the grand marble foyer of PCA, watching girls with natural blonde highlights step out of matte-black G-Wagons, I didn't want to shrink away. I wanted to be right in the middle of it all. ​In homeroom, the vibe was less "education" and more "predator tank." ​When Mr. Vance called my name, I didn't hide. I walked straight to the front, squared my shoulders in my ridiculously expensive uniform, and pitched my voice across the silent, hostile room. ​"I’m Kaliea Maxwell. Just moved in from Judyton." ​A guy in the front row with a Rolex that could probably fund a small hospital squinted at me like I’d spoken in Elvish. "Wait... Judyton? Is that a fictional place? Like Narnia for poor people?" ​A ripple of sharp, rehearsed laughter swept through the rows. ​I didn't blink. I locked eyes with him, my voice dripping with dry acid. "It's real." ​The laughter died down into offended silence. I didn't wait for permission; I marched down the aisle to the very last empty desk, dumped my bag, and told myself that by graduation, I’d own every single leather-bound chair in this building. ​By lunchtime, the Pacific Crest cafeteria felt less like a lunchroom and more like a high-end lounge. The food stations offered things I couldn't pronounce, and the social hierarchy was etched into the air with invisible lasers. I grabbed a ridiculously overpriced caesar salad and shoved myself into a quiet corner table, taking in the glamour, the designer bags, and the effortless social royalty surrounding me. ​I was barely two bites in when a heavy designer tote bag slammed onto the table directly across from me. ​"I mean, honestly, if he thinks I’m going to text him first after he ruined my whole day, he is profoundly delusional!" ​I blinked, my fork hovering halfway to my mouth as a girl slid into the chair with effortless, high-maintenance grace. She didn't even look at me. She instantly popped open a gold compact mirror, aggressively reapplied a coat of pink gloss, and shoved my salad dressing container out of her way to make room for her elbows. ​"I literally had to flee our usual table because if I had to look at his fake-apologetic face for one more second, I was going to throw my iced matcha right down his throat," she ranted, flicking her glossy brunette hair over her shoulder. "The audacity of men in Los Angeles should be studied by NASA." ​I stared at her, genuinely astounded. "Are you... talking to me?" ​Hearing a voice that definitely didn't belong to her inner circle, she snapped her mirror shut with a sharp click and finally looked up. ​Her bright brown eyes swept over my face, taking in my curly ginger hair and my spotless uniform with a look of pure, unadulterated shock. Then, a slow, dazzling smile spread across her face. ​"Oh. My. God," she gasped, leaning in. "You’re the scholarship girl. Wow. PCA hasn't let a scholarship student in since... what, the Clinton administration? The board said it ruined the lighting in the yearbook." ​My defensive wall shot right back up. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?" ​"Well, obviously!" she chirped, completely unfazed by my glare. She waved a hand loaded with gold rings. "And honestly, you should be throwing yourself a massive party right now. Sitting with me on your very first day? You just fast-tracked your entire social survival. People pay actual money for this kind of proximity. You're welcome, by the way." ​She didn't ask where I was from. She didn't care. She was a hurricane of self-absorbed, chaotic energy, but she wore it with such absurd, magnetic confidence that I couldn't even look away. ​"I'm Jenni," she announced, flashing a blinding, perfect smile. "Jenni Lockwood. And trust me, being in my orbit is going to change your life here." ​My blood ran cold. ​The name hit my ears like a physical blow. Lockwood. ​Before I could process it, Jenni unzipped her bag, reaching past her designer sunglasses to pull out a sleek, gold-rimmed compact mirror embossed with an intricate, heavy family crest logo to check her eyeliner one last time. ​My eyes dropped straight to the mirror in her hand. ​The interlocking cursive letters. The exact same gold crest I had memorized from the faded legal documents Aunt Clara had tried so hard to burn. ​The air vanished from my lungs. ​My adopted sister, Maya—the girl who had shared my room, my secrets, and my wildest dreams back in the orphanage before Aunt Clara adopted us both—hadn't just "drowned" by accident. Before we moved to Judyton, Maya had secretly taken a summer job working the estate grounds of a billionaire family in LA. ​The Lockwoods. ​The family whose high-powered lawyers and bottomless bank accounts had completely erased Maya's existence. No news articles. No police reports. No social media footprints. To the world, she had never even lived. ​And here, in the heart of Los Angeles, thousands of miles away from where Aunt Clara begged me to leave it alone, I was sitting across from their daughter. ​"Hey, are you breathing over there?" Jenni asked, tilting her head, her bright brown eyes narrowing slightly at my sudden, deathly pale expression. "You look like you just saw a ghost." ​"Nothing," I whispered, my hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly my knuckles turned white. "Just... a bad memory." ​Jenni bought it instantly, already distracted as a group of girls called her name from across the room. She snapped her compact shut, grabbed her bag, and flashed a breezy wave. "Duty calls, scholarship! Try to look a little less terrified before afternoon classes." ​With a laugh, she strutted away to her glittering friends. ​I sat completely frozen in the middle of the roaring cafeteria, my heart hammering against my ribs. ​Does Jenni even know? Does she know what her family did to Maya? Does she know about the hush money, the erased reports, the way they wiped my sister out like she was just dirt on their estate pool deck? Or is she completely clueless, wrapped up in her own glossy, superficial world? ​A dark, dangerous urge rose in my chest. I wanted to march right over to her table, grab her by her designer collar, and force her to answer for her family's sins. But I forced my hands down. ​Aunt Clara could never find out about this. If Aunt Clara knew I was sitting in the same room as a Lockwood, she would panic, pack our bags, and drag me straight back to Judyton. She had always insisted on letting it go, warning me that revenge against people with that much money would only destroy us. Aunt Clara wanted peace. ​But as I watched Jenni laugh with the most powerful kids in school, holding the exact life, wealth, and popularity I had always dreamed of, I knew peace was no longer an option. I wasn't going to tell Aunt Clara a single word. ​I was going to get closer to Jenni Lockwood. And I was going to find out the truth.