Pacific elites

Chapter 2: Imitations and Algorithms

The moment I stepped through the front door, the rich, familiar scent of crushed eucalyptus and sweet soil hit me. Aunt Clara was leaning over the kitchen counter, humming softly to herself.

​"Aunt Clara?" I called out, slipping my tote off my shoulder.

​She jumped, nearly knocking over a vase of fresh baby’s breath. "Oh! Keke—I mean, Kaliea! Goodness, you startled me." She wiped her hands on her apron, her face lighting up with that warm, tired smile I’d known my whole life. "How was it? Tell me everything. Did you make friends? Is the school as huge as the pictures?"

​"It’s... massive," I said, choosing my words carefully as I walked over to the counter. "And everyone looks like they belong on a billboard."

​"Well, you belong there just as much as any of them," Aunt Clara said firmly. She reached under the counter and pulled out a sleek, black box tied with a thick satin ribbon. She slid it across the island toward me, her eyes shining with pride. "A welcome-to-LA gift. For my brilliant scholarship girl."

​I blinked, looking from the heavy box to her face. "Aunt Clara, what is this? You didn't have to get me anything."

​"Open it!" she urged, nudging it closer.

​I untied the ribbon and lifted the heavy lid. Tucked inside layers of crisp tissue paper was a pair of glossy, black leather loafers featuring a polished gold buckle stamped with the word PRADA.

​My breath caught. "Aunt Clara... oh my god. How did you even get these? These cost more than—"

​"Don't you worry about the cost," she cut in softly, reaching over to squeeze my hand. "I know how much you wanted to fit in at that fancy school. You've worked so hard, Kaliea. You lost so much... and you never complain. I just wanted you to have one really nice, designer thing to step into that place with."

​Tears pricked the back of my eyes. I pulled her into a tight hug, burying my face against her shoulder. "I love them. I’ve never owned anything like this. I’m wearing them tomorrow!"

​"Of course, sweetie," she beamed, pulling back to pat my cheek.

​"How’s the shop doing?" I asked, looking toward the storefront. "Are you doing okay handling it all by yourself?"

​"Better than okay," she said, her voice lifting with genuine excitement. "I actually met a new friend this week—a lovely woman who owns a bakery down the block. We’re talking about partnering up! Transforming the flower shop into a half-cafe, half-florist space. Coffee, pastries, and fresh blooms."

​"A flower cafe? Aunt Clara, that's amazing!"

​"It’s a big step, but it could really turn things around for us here," she said, nodding happily. "Now, go wash up. Dinner’s almost ready."

​We sat down to a quiet dinner of roast chicken and buttered potatoes. Before we ate, Aunt Clara took my hands, bowed her head, and prayed—thanking God for our new beginning, for safety, and for the promise of a bright future in Los Angeles.

​I kept my eyes closed, my chest tight with guilt.

​I didn't tell her about Jenni Lockwood. I didn't tell her about the gold crest on the compact mirror, or the way my blood had run ice-cold in the middle of the cafeteria. Aunt Clara believed in fresh starts and leaving the past buried. If she knew the family connected to Maya’s death was breathing the same air as me, she’d panic. She’d drag me back to Judyton before sunrise.

​So, I stayed silent.

​Later that night, upstairs in my tiny bedroom, I sat on the edge of my bed with my phone glow illuminating the dark. My fingers hovered over the i********: search bar before I typed in the name: Jenni Lockwood.

​Her profile popped up instantly. Verified checkmark. 112,000 followers.

​I scrolled through her feed in awe. Pictures of her lounging on yachts in Malibu, posing in high-fashion streetwear, sipping iced coffees in Paris. The comment section was a warzone of compliments—thousands of people begging for her attention, girls wanting to be her, boys dropping heart emojis.

​She wasn't just rich; she was social royalty.

​If I wanted to find out what happened to Maya—if I wanted to know whether Jenni was clueless or hiding her family's dark past—I couldn't just stand in the shadows. I needed to get close to her. I needed to become someone Jenni couldn't ignore.

​This was my new beginning. And I was going to make it count.

​The next morning, I stood in front of my mirror, admiring my reflection. I had styled my ginger hair into a sleek, high bun, leaving a few curls frame my face. My PCA uniform looked sharp, but the real star of the ensemble was at my feet—the glossy black Prada loafers. They felt smooth, expensive, and powerful.

​I felt like an elite.

​Because I missed the early city bus, I had to ride my bike to the main transit stop. I pedaled fast down the palm-lined streets, parking my bike securely in the hidden bike rack behind the bus terminal. There was no way I was letting anyone at Pacific Crest catch me riding a bicycle like a middle-schooler.

​I boarded the bus, sat near the back, and adjusted my uniform skirt.

​When I walked through the grand iron gates of Pacific Crest Academy, I held my head high. I caught a few glances from students near the lockers, hearing low murmurs, but I brushed them off. I was feeling confident.

​My first class of the day was Advanced Calculus with Mr. John. Math had always been my secret weapon—the one subject where numbers didn't lie, flex, or judge your bank account.

​I took a seat in the middle row, placing my notebook neatly on the wooden desk. As Mr. John began writing complex equations across the dry-erase board, my phone buzzed in my lap.

​I slid it out quietly. It was an email notification. Before school started, I had sent out dozens of applications for part-time retail jobs around the city. Aunt Clara had explicitly forbidden me from working at the flower shop so I could focus on my studies, but I needed my own cash if I was going to survive in LA.

​RE: Interview Invitation - L’Étoile Boutique

Dear Kaliea, we were impressed by your resume and would love to invite you for an in-person interview today at 4:30 PM...

​A quiet gasp slipped past my lips. An interview! A real chance at a job. Excited, I kept scrolling through my phone, checking the address, completely forgetting to put my device on Do Not Disturb.

​"Miss Maxwell."

​A sharp voice snapped me out of my trance. I looked up. Mr. John was standing at the front of the room, his arms crossed over his chest, staring directly at me.

​"Me?" I squeaked, my face heating up.

​"Yes, you," he said coldly. "Since your cell phone seems vastly more interesting than my lecture, why don't you come up to the board and solve problem number four for the class?"

​A few snickers echoed from the back row. My heart began to pound against my ribs. I stood up on shaky legs, smoothing my skirt, and walked up to the front of the classroom. The chalk felt heavy in my hand.

​I stared at the long, intimidating calculus problem. I took a slow breath, closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, and let my brain work through the formulas. Then, I began to write. The chalk squeaked rapidly against the board as I worked through the derivatives, simplifying the terms until I circled the final answer.

​I turned around, setting the chalk down.

​Mr. John blinked, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses as he looked at the board. "...Correct," he admitted, looking mildly annoyed. "Very well. Take your seat."

​"Thanks," I murmured, feeling a tiny rush of pride as I walked back down the aisle.

​"Alright, settle down," Mr. John called out, clapping his hands. "For the next two weeks, you will be working in assigned pairs on a comprehensive topic breakdown. You will research your assigned unit and present a full lecture to the class."

​He picked up his clipboard and began calling out names.

​"Toby Peterson and Alicia Vance... Marcus Chen and Lisa Park... Jenni Lockwood and Kaliea Maxwell."

​"Wait, excuse me?"

​Jenni’s voice cut through the room like a glass blade. She was sitting near the windows, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders. She looked at Mr. John in absolute disbelief.

​"Mr. John , you cannot pair me with... her," Jenni demanded, gesturing vaguely in my direction with a manicured hand. "You're supposed to pair me with Lisa! We always do group projects together."

​"Things have changed, Miss Lockwood," Mr. John replied dryly, not even looking up from his clipboard. "The point of a group project is to learn how to collaborate with new people. You and Miss Maxwell are partners."

​"Mr John , please," Jenni scoffed, leaning back and tossing her head. "At least pair me with someone wearing an original designer shoe."

​The classroom went dead silent.

​My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. "What?" I blurted out.

​Jenni looked over at me, a cruel, amused smirk playing on her lips as she pointed down toward my feet. "What? Did you really think no one would notice? The crest emblem on those loafers is totally off-center, and the leather texture isn't even genuine Italian calfskin. They're knockoffs. Pure, cheap fakes. I mean... did you get those from a street vendor in Judyton?"

​A sudden, deafening wave of laughter exploded across the classroom.

​"Oh my god, knockoffs?" someone gasped.

"She really tried it!" another girl giggled.

​My blood ran cold. The laughter buzzed in my ears like a swarm of hornets. I looked down at the shoes on my feet—the shoes my aunt had spent her hard-earned money on, the gift she was so proud to give me—and felt a wave of hot, suffocating humiliation wash over me.

​They were fake. Aunt Clara had tried so hard to give me something special, and she had gotten scammed. And now, I was standing in front of thirty ultra-rich teenagers, exposed and humiliated.

​"Miss Lockwood, that is entirely out of line!" Mr. John snapped, slamming his clipboard onto his desk. "Report to the principal's office immediately for disrespect!"

​"Oh, my days," Jenni groaned dramatically, rolling her eyes. She grabbed her heavy designer tote bag, unbothered by the detention. "Whatever. At least I won't have to breathe the same air as synthetic leather."

​She strutted out of the classroom, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind her.

​I sat frozen at my desk, my chin trembling as burning tears pricked the corners of my eyes. I gripped the edge of my table so hard my knuckles turned white, fighting with everything in me not to cry in front of them. The laughter slowly died down, but the quiet whispers remained.