Written And Unwritten Rules
1102 Words
I stared at Brittany like she’d just sprouted three heads. Was she serious?
“You don’t know?” she gasped, hands flying to her chest like I’d told her I didn’t know what a spoon was.
“Um… no?” I mumbled, shrinking under her wide-eyed horror.
She gasped again—louder this time. “Oh my gosh, you are adorable. Tragic, but adorable.” She turned her head dramatically. “Kelsey! Did you hear that? She doesn’t know about the class tiers!”
Kelsey, still walking ahead with her arms crossed like she had better places to be, didn’t even slow down. “Don’t care.”
Brittany didn’t miss a beat. She turned back to me, practically glowing. “I care. And since you’re, like, our new roomie now, you need a crash course. Immediately.”
I swallowed. Brittany was already speed-walking down the marble hallway, her heels clicking like an oncoming apocalypse with glitter.
“Okay,” she began, tossing her hair like we were filming a reality show, “you know how in regular schools there are the popular kids, nerds, and that one theater group with dramatic eyeliner?”
I nodded slowly. That sounded... familiar.
“Well,” she said, spinning mid-step and throwing her arms wide, “here, we have the Tiers.”
“Tears?” I asked. “Like… crying?”
“No, sweetie.” She smiled like I’d just asked if clouds were made of candy. “Tier. T-I-E-R. Social hierarchy. Think high school, but with better skincare and higher stakes.”
She twirled again and kept strutting. I hurried after her, trying not to trip on the gleaming floor.
“Top of the pyramid? Gold Tier. That’s us. Children of billionaires, royal brats, future world rulers. If your last name can buy a private island—or a country—you’re here.”
“Wait. You’re royalty?” I asked, half-joking.
“Pfft, close enough. Daddy owns half the East Coast.” She waved it off like it wasn’t the most insane thing I’d ever heard. “Anyway, Gold gets everything first—housing, professors, event invites. Basically, we breathe a shinier air.”
We passed a balcony. Some Gold Tier guy was sipping a sparkling drink while pretending to read. The book hadn’t moved a page since we turned the corner.
“Next is Silver Tier. Still rich, just… newer money. Tech kids, influencer babies. We tolerate them, but, like… we see the effort.”
I blinked. “Okay…”
“Then Bronze Tier. Sponsored students. Their parents are probably rich, just not rich enough. Think distant royalty, foreign dignitaries, or business deals gone right.”
We passed a lounge. A chandelier bigger than my entire dorm back home hung above velvet couches.
“And then,” Brittany said, voice dipping into dramatic horror, “we have Gray Tier.”
I winced. “Let me guess… that’s me.”
“Bingo.” She gave me a pitying smile, but at least it felt... warm. “Scholarship students. Like, the rarest of the rare. Super geniuses or part of a school charity project.”
“That… stings.”
“Oh my god, no no no!” Brittany spun around so fast I nearly bumped into her. She grabbed my hands, eyes wide. “That came out so wrong! I love charity cases—I mean—not in a bad way! You’re smart and scrappy and—ugh—I’m saying everything wrong. What I mean is: you’re cool. Like, actually cool.”
I stared. She looked so genuinely horrified it made me want to laugh… and also cry?
“Let me make it up to you,” she said quickly. “Come see our room. You’re gonna die.”
She flung open a gold-trimmed door like she was opening the gates to heaven.
And honestly? It kind of felt like she did.
My jaw dropped.
Sunlight poured in through glass walls with motorized curtains. Velvet couches. Marble floors. A mini kitchen that looked like a set from a cooking show.
“Each of us gets a bedroom and bathroom,” Brittany explained, pointing to four pristine doors. “We picked ours already, but yours is the last one. Promise it’s not a downgrade. It has a walk-in closet and a smart mirror.”
I stood frozen in the doorway. The last room. Was I ready for more?
Brittany leaned in, stage-whispering, “I peeked earlier. It has a chandelier. In. The. Closet.”
She pushed open the door.
I almost fainted.
Silk sheets on a massive bed, floating shelves that moved with voice commands, a mini-fridge full of snacks I couldn’t afford in real life, and yes—an actual chandelier in the closet.
“You’re seriously letting me stay here?” I whispered.
“Duh! You’re our miracle!” Brittany beamed. “That girl I told you about earlier? She was supposed to be our fourth, but total drama queen. I told the school I’d find a better option—not from Gold Tier—and voila. You.”
“So… I’m just a replacement?”
“Well, yes. But also no! You’re my replacement. I saw you walking by and thought: ‘That girl has potential.’”
“…Thanks?”
Brittany twirled her hair. “One tiny thing, though… we’ll need to, like, tweak your wardrobe. Just a bit.”
I glanced down at my thrift-store jacket and mismatched sneakers.
Yep. I was already doomed.
“But don’t worry!” she said brightly. “You’ve got me now. Full makeover incoming. It’ll be iconic.”
“Is fashion here really that serious?” I asked, praying she’d say no.
“Honey,” Brittany said solemnly, placing a hand on my shoulder like she was giving me a eulogy, “one bad bag, and you’re socially exiled until graduation. Fashion rivalries here are like war. One misused belt destroyed a friendship. A belt.”
“…Great,” I muttered.
“Oh! Also,” she continued, now counting on her fingers, “there are rules. Official and unofficial. No uniforms, but always look put together. No flunking or scandals or you’ll get called to a hearing. Dueling is banned, but sabotage? Still very much alive.”
My head spun. “And the unwritten rules?”
“Oh, babe. Those are worse. Don’t act rich if you’re not. If a Gold Tier talks to you, listen. Never show up looking like a mess. And remember: every party, every hallway walk, every classroom entrance? It’s a test. You’re either shining… surviving… or getting stomped.”
- Writer
