Pacific elites

Chapter 3: Rain, Radios, and Fake Promises

The rest of the school day was an absolute nightmare. By fifth period, news that the new scholarship transfer had shown up in knockoff Prada loafers had spread through the hallways like wildfire.

​I skipped the cafeteria entirely. Sitting alone in an empty, dust-scented history classroom on the third floor, I ate my salad in total silence, staring out the tall glass windows. Every time I looked down at my feet—at the smooth, black leather my aunt had handed me with so much love—my throat burned with fresh humiliation. I tucked my feet beneath my chair, praying for the final bell to ring.

​When 3:00 PM finally hit, I didn't linger. I rushed out the heavy oak doors, grabbed the city bus, and rode it straight to the shopping district on Wilshire Boulevard, parking my bike in the public lot behind the strip of high-end stores.

​I had an interview at L’Étoile Boutique, a sleek, minimalist fashion shop, and I couldn't afford to be late.

​The interview was fast and mercifully quiet. The manager, a sharp-dressed woman named Elena, scanned my resume, asked a few questions about my previous customer service experience in Judyton, and gave me a curt, approving nod.

​"You're articulate, Kaliea, and you dress neatly," Elena said, blissfully unaware of the fake-leather scandal currently defining my life. "You've got the job. Sales representative. Three days a week—one weekday after school, and both weekend days. You start this Saturday."

​"Thank you so much," I breathed, relief washing over me. "I won't let you down."

​When I stepped out the back door of the boutique, intending to unlock my bike and ride home, my jaw dropped.

​The sky had turned a dark, bruised purple, and rain was pouring down in torrential sheets. Heavy drops slammed against the pavement, bouncing off my uniform skirt. My bike was sitting right in the middle of the open parking lot, getting utterly soaked.

​I pulled out my phone to text Aunt Clara, but the screen stayed stubbornly black. Dead battery.

​"Great. Fantastic," I muttered to myself, biting my lip.

​Aunt Clara was going to lose her mind if I didn't get home soon. She was probably already checking the clock, wondering if I’d gotten lost in the city. I looked at my bike, then at the downpour, and made a desperate, stupid decision. I’d just ride through it. It was only rain.

​I took a fast step into the deluge—

​"Wait, wait, wait." A deep, amused voice echoed from under the boutique’s covered awning. "Are you actually about to ride a bicycle in a literal monsoon?"

​I froze, pulling back under the overhang, wiping water droplets from my forehead. I spun around, and my heart instantly plummeted into my stomach.

​Standing near the back entrance of the adjacent sports club, leaning against the brick wall with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, was the blonde guy from my math class. High cheekbones, a razor-sharp buzz cut, and ice-blue eyes that looked entirely too perceptive.

​Great. A PCA elite. Exactly the last person on earth I wanted to see right now.

​My face flushed hot. Panic flared in my chest, but instead of shrinking, my defensive instincts kicked in full force.

​"No," I lied blithely, holding my chin up while rainwater dripped off the tip of my nose. "I wasn't riding my bike. I was... stepping out to feel the rain on my skin. And dance."

​He raised a single blonde eyebrow, staring at me like I’d just declared myself Queen of Mars. "There's no music."

​"So you don't dance without music?" I retorted, crossing my arms over my damp blazer. "Tragic. It's literally the best way to dance in the rain."

​He stared at me for three long, agonizing seconds. A slow, infuriating smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He gestured grandly toward the empty, rain-slicked parking lot.

​"Okay," he said dryly. "Go dance then."

​I blinked. "What?"

​"Go on," he repeated, leaning back against the wall, his blue eyes glinting with quiet amusement. "Show me how it's done. Dance in the rain."

​My stomach did a panic-flip. I looked at the pouring rain, then at his smug, gorgeous face. If I chickened out now, he'd know I was lying. He'd walk away, go back to PCA tomorrow, and tell everyone the scholarship girl was not only wearing fake shoes, but was also a pathetic liar.

​Fine.

​I took a deep breath, marched straight out into the middle of the downpour, and threw my hands in the air.

​I spun around in a sloppy, ridiculous circle. I did a dramatic, uncoordinated shimmy, kicking my water-logged loafers into the air while rainwater blinded my eyes. I looked completely, utterly unhinged, dancing to absolute silence in front of closed shop windows while a few shoppers inside stared at me through the glass like I was insane.

​After twenty horrific seconds, I stomped back under the awning, breathing heavily, my ginger hair dripping wet and plastered to my cheeks.

​"Haha," I said sarcastically, glaring at him. "Very funny."

​He burst out laughing—a real, rich sound that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Hey! You started it!"

​"Sure," I muttered, wringing out the hem of my blazer.

​He softened, his laughter fading into a faint, apologetic smile. "Hey... I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean to make you do that. I just thought it’d be a fun way to... you know, welcome you."

​"How is that supposed to make me welcome?" I snapped, my voice shaking slightly. "You just embarrassed me in front of complete strangers!"

​"What do you care what strangers think?" he asked, tilting his head.

​"Clearly, you've never been the new person!" I shot back, wiping water from my eyes. "What strangers think matters a lot because it's literally their first impression of me!"

​He quieted down, looking at me with a sudden, serious intensity. The mocking edge completely vanished from his face.

​"Okay," he said softly. "I'm sorry. Seriously. I'm Toby."

​He reached into his pocket, pulled out a set of car keys, and clicked a button. A sleek, matte-black Porsche parked a few yards away beeped, its headlights flashing through the rain.

​"Let me give you a ride home," Toby offered.

​I hesitated, looking at my soaked bicycle locked up in the lot. "My bike. I need my bike for school tomorrow. I'll just wait for the rain to stop."

​"I can come pick you up tomorrow," he said casually.

​I stared at him, stunned. "What?"

​"As an apology," he said, turning the keys in his hand. "Tell me where you live. I'll drop you off now, and I'll drive by your place tomorrow morning to pick you up for school. Your bike stays here, safe under the tree."

​I searched his face for any sign of a joke, any hidden cruelty or setup for another PCA prank. But his blue eyes were completely steady, totally honest.

​"...You'd actually do that?" I asked quietly.

​"Yeah," Toby said simply. "Come on. Before you catch pneumonia."

​The ride in his Porsche was surreal. The leather seats were heated, smelling faintly of expensive cedar and rain. We rode in total silence, the soft hum of the engine and the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers filling the space between us. I gave him sharp, terse directions—turn left here, straight through the light, second right.

​When he pulled up to the curb in front of Aunt Clara's modest, flower-adorned house, I unbuckled my seatbelt, my hand hovering on the door handle.

​I turned to look at him. He was looking straight ahead through the rain-streaked windshield.

​"I'm Toby," he repeated softly, as if reminding me. "Toby Peterson."

​"I'm Kaliea," I murmured.

​A tiny, knowing smile touched his lips. "I know."

​"Thanks for the ride, Toby," I said.

​"Sure," he said quietly.

​I pushed the door open, darted up the porch steps, and slipped inside before I could get completely soaked again.

​As soon as the front door clicked shut, the warm, comforting scent of baked apples and cinnamon wrapped around me.

​"Keke?" Aunt Clara’s voice called out from the kitchen. She stepped into the hallway, holding a dish towel, her eyes wide as she took in my dripping uniform and wet hair. "Oh, goodness! Look at you, you're soaked! Was that... someone dropping you off outside?"

​My heart jumped into my throat. I couldn't tell her the truth. I couldn't tell her my phone had died, that I was forced to dance in the rain like a lunatic, or that the boy driving the Porsche was the son of PCA royalty.

​And most of all, I couldn't tell her about the fake Prada shoes. If she knew the elites had laughed at her gift, it would break her sweet, generous heart into a million pieces.

​"Yeah!" I forced a bright, happy smile onto my face, squeezing the water from my ponytail. "A friend from school dropped me off. Toby."

​Aunt Clara’s face lit up with pure joy. "A friend? Already? Oh, sweetie, that's wonderful! And how were the shoes today? Did everyone at school love them?"

​The lie felt like a heavy lump in my throat, but I forced it down.

​"They loved them, Aunt Clara," I lied softly, offering her the warmest smile I could muster. "They... they really made an impression."

​Aunt Clara beamed, coming over to kiss the top of my forehead. "I knew it! I'm so proud of you, Keke. Now go get changed into dry clothes before you catch a cold."

​"Okay, Aunt Clara," I whispered.

​I turned and ran up the stairs toward my bedroom, my wet socks squeaking against the wood, escaping before she could ask another single question.

After showering and changing into an oversized sweater, I curled up on my bed. The soft glow of my laptop screen filled the quiet room, but I couldn't focus on my homework. My stomach was still churning from the day's humiliation.

​I opened i********:, my fingers hesitating over the search bar.

​I checked Jenni Lockwood’s profile first. As expected, her story ring was glowing pink. I tapped it. My breath caught in my throat.

​It wasn't a selfie or a video of her dinner. It was a reposted photo originally uploaded by an unofficial, highly followed student account called @PCABurnBook.

​The photo was a crystal-clear, close-up shot of my feet under the calculus desk. My fake Prada loafers, zoomed in so closely that the uneven stitching and off-center crest were impossible to miss.

​@PCABurnBook: Scholarship season brought us synthetic leather this year, guys. 💀 Who let this onto campus? #PacificFakes #PradaOrNada

​Underneath the post, the comments were flying in by the hundreds.

Hot tears pricked the corners of my eyes. The humiliation from class flared back up, sharper and uglier than before. They had literally made my shoes a school-wide joke before I even made it to my second day.

​I clicked out of the story before I could start crying. To distract myself, I clicked on the account’s follower list, scrolling through the sea of Pacific Crest students until a familiar handle caught my eye: @toby.peterson.

​I tapped his profile.

​His account was surprisingly low-key for an elite. No flashy cars, no humble-brags. Just candid shots of the ocean, blurry sunset photos, and a few sports pictures from baseball practice. In every single photo, he looked undeniably, infuriatingly handsome—his sharp jawline, blonde buzz cut, and quiet blue eyes jumping off the screen.

​He really is good-looking, I admitted softly to myself, remembering how he had stood in the rain, watching me dance like an i***t without an ounce of judgment in his eyes. He was probably the first guy in LA who had spoken to me like a real human being.

​I scrolled down his grid. My thumb stopped on a picture posted a few months ago—a Valentine's Day post.

​It was a photo of Toby with his arm wrapped around a stunning, sleek blonde girl wearing a tailored PCA blazer. He was looking down at her with a soft, rare smile.

​@toby.peterson: Year six with you. Happy Valentine's, Al. 🤍

​I tapped her tagged handle: @alicia.vance.

​Alicia Vance. The girl who had been paired up in calculus today. The daughter of our teacher. They had been together since they were twelve.

​"Oh," I murmured to the empty room, a weird, tiny pang in my chest. "So Toby has a long-term girlfriend. Of course he does."

​It made sense. Guys like Toby Peterson didn't stay single, especially not for scholarship transfer girls in knockoff shoes.

​I clicked back to Toby's profile, continuing to scroll through his older posts, trying to push the thought of Alicia out of my head. I scrolled down to a post from last year—a formal photo taken at a glowing, high-society gala held inside a massive mansion with marble pillars.

​In the center of the photo stood a lavishly dressed couple. The man wore a tailored tuxedo, and the woman wore a floor-length emerald gown with a sparkling diamond necklace. Standing between them were Toby and Jenni, both dressed to the nines.

​My heart stopped beating.

​I knew that couple. I had spent hours staring at their faces on legal documents back home.

​Jenni’s parents. The Lockwoods.

​I frantically scrambled to read the caption Toby had written beneath the photo:

​@toby.peterson: Happy 25th anniversary to the best Aunt and Uncle. Thanks for hosting us, Uncle Richard & Aunt Eleanor. 🥂

​The laptop screen suddenly felt blindingly bright. My breath hit a wall in my chest.

​Aunt and Uncle.

​Jenni wasn't just Toby's classmate. She wasn't just another girl in his social circle.

​Toby Peterson and Jenni Lockwood were cousins.

​I stared at the picture, the blood rushing in my ears like a roaring wave. The boy who had just given me a ride home in his Porsche—the only boy who had been kind to me—was directly blood-related to the family that killed my sister and covered it up.