ARRIVING AT SCHOOL
1705 Words
Ziba had never felt this out of place before.
Her mother’s car rolled to a slow stop in front of the grandest school she had ever seen, a towering institution with gold-trimmed iron gates, massive glass windows that reflected the morning sun, and pristine white walls that looked like they had never known a speck of dust.
The entrance alone was overwhelming. The school’s name stood proudly in bold letters across the archway, flanked by two marble lion statues, their fierce gazes set forward as if daring anyone unworthy to step inside. Beyond the gates, an enormous courtyard stretched out, with neatly trimmed hedges, perfectly mowed lawns, and a circular fountain with a lion’s head spouting water.
Ziba swallowed hard.
She had seen the pictures online, but standing here in person was something else entirely. Everything about this place screamed luxury, power and untouchable wealth.
Her mother sighed beside her. “You’ll do great, sweetheart.”
Ziba didn’t respond immediately. She was too busy staring at the parade of high-end vehicles pulling into the parking lot—sleek black limousines, glossy Ferraris, matte-finished Lamborghinis, and even a Rolls-Royce with a personal chauffeur opening the door for a student. The students stepping out of these cars were just as intimidating, they were tall, well-groomed, and dressed in uniforms that, despite being the same design as hers, looked ten times more expensive.
Her mother reached for her hands, “You’ll do just great honey, and if anyone tries to make you feel small, remember this—you are not small.”
Ziba forced a smile. “That was very poetic, Mom.”
Her mother chuckled. She squeezed Ziba’s hand one last time before letting go. “Now go in there and show them who you are.”
Ziba took a deep breath, reached for the car door handle, and stepped out.
Immediately, the atmosphere changed.
The moment her shoes hit the pavement, she could feel the eyes turning, whispers rising, silent judgments hanging in the air like a thick, invisible fog.
A group of girls stood by the gates, their sleek ponytails swaying as they whispered among themselves.
“Who is that?” one of them muttered, her lips curling slightly.
“She looks like a new girl,” another answered.
“She doesn’t look like she belongs here.”
Ziba pretended not to hear them, but the words crawled under her skin.
A cluster of boys leaned against a nearby pillar, dressed in the same school blazer but wearing it with effortless cool. One of them, a tall guy with perfectly styled hair, raised an eyebrow as he watched her. He didn’t say anything, but his expression said enough, he was assessing her, measuring her against whatever invisible standard existed in this school.
She already knew the result, but she fell short.
She gripped the straps of her backpack and forced herself to keep moving.
Just as she passed the main courtyard, she heard someone say
“Ugh, do you smell that?”
A voice, loud and exaggerated, cut through the air.
A blonde girl with icy blue eyes and a perfectly tailored uniform wrinkled her nose as she leaned into her friend.
“God, what is that? Smells like very cheap perfumes”
Laughter rippled through the group, their polished nails covering their painted lips as they giggled behind their hands.
Ziba’s stomach tightened. “Ignore them, just keep walking.” She tells herself.
She was almost at the entrance when someone bumped hard into her.
Her shoulder slammed against the stone pillar, and her breath hitched.
“Oops.”
Ziba turned, rubbing her arm as she met the piercing green gaze of a girl with caramel skin and an infuriating smirk. She was stunning, effortlessly so, with a confidence that came from knowing the world bent to her will.
The girl tilted her head. “You should watch where you’re going, newbie.”
Ziba clenched her jaw, she wanted to say something, but what would she say? She didn’t even know who this girl was yet, but she already had the air of someone untouchable.
The girl smirked again, clearly pleased with herself, then sauntered off toward her group, where she was met with approving glances and hushed giggles.
Ziba took a deep breath.
This was going to be a long, long day.
And she had a feeling this was just the beginning.
Ziba could feel the weight of dozens of eyes on her as she stood at the front of the classroom.
The teacher Ms. Donovan, stood beside her, flipping through the attendance sheet. She was a tall, severe-looking woman in her early forties, with sharp eyes that could probably see through lies.
"Class, we have a new student joining us today," Ms. Donovan announced, her voice crisp and authoritative. "Ziba, introduce yourself."
Ziba took a slow breath, steadying herself.
"Hi," she began, forcing a small smile. "I'm Ziba Vida, and I—"
She didn’t even get to finish before a low, mocking “Ooooh” spread across the room.
Someone at the back muttered, “Great, another charity case.”
Ziba’s stomach clenched.
Ms. Donovan shot a glare in the direction of the voice. "I will not tolerate disrespect in my classroom."
The murmurs died down, but the judgmental stares didn’t fade.
Ziba straightened her shoulders, she wasn’t going to let them see her sweat.
Ms. Donovan gestured towards an empty seat near the middle. "Take a seat, Ziba. Now, where were we?" She turned back to the board, resuming the lesson.
Ziba hurried to her seat, sliding into the chair as quietly as possible.
She could hear the whispers around her.
"Where do you think she’s from?"
"No way her parents paid tuition here."
"She looks like she thinks she’s better than us."
Ziba ignored them, pulling out her notebook and gripping her pen tightly.
Then came the moment that sealed her fate.
Ms. Donovan paused at the front of the room, tapping her marker against the board. "Who can tell me the main theme of ‘The Great Gatsby’ and how it reflects the social divide in the novel?"
Everyone was silent completely unaware of the answers.
The students glanced at each other, a few rolling their eyes.
Then, as if the universe hated her, Ziba’s mouth opened before she could stop herself.
"The pursuit of the American Dream," she said, her voice clear. "But also, how that dream is not attainable for everyone. Gatsby chases wealth thinking it will bring him happiness, but in the end, he’s still an outsider to old money society. He never truly belongs."
The room went still.
Then the students burst into a peal of loud laughter.
"Seriously?" A blonde girl in the corner smirked. "She’s one of those students?"
Someone else whispered loudly, "What a sure way to make yourself a target, newbie."
Ziba’s fingers tightened around her pen, but Ms. Donovan actually looked pleased.
"Excellent analysis, Ziba. I expect more participation like that from the rest of you," she said, pointedly looking at the class.
Ziba should have felt good about the compliment.
Instead, she felt a shiver crawl up her spine.
Because across the room, lounging in her seat like she owned the place, was Celeste Lancaster.
And she was staring right at Ziba.
Celeste was beautiful, powerful and entitled, she was the kind of girl people spoke about only in whispers but never dared to challenge.
She wasn’t just rich, she was powerfully rich. The kind of rich where her family’s name could open doors that stayed locked for everyone else.
She was breathtakingly beautiful, in a way that felt almost unfair. Long platinum blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a figure sculpted to perfection. Every move she made was effortless, like she had been trained from birth to walk like a queen.
And she had an entourage.
A group of perfectly groomed girls who clung to her every word, waiting for her approval like flowers turning toward the sun.
People either worshipped her or feared her.
Ziba could already tell which group she was about to be placed in.
Celeste leaned back in her chair, her manicured fingers tapping against her desk. A slow, calculating smile spread across her lips, she had found her new target.
Her first encounter with Ziba was after class, Ziba was gathering her books, trying to ignore the side glances and whispers, when she heard a soft gasp.
“Oh no!”
A sudden warmth spilt across her books.
She froze, watching in horror as the dark brown liquid seeped into her pages, spreading like an ugly stain.
Her head snapped up.
Celeste stood there, holding a now-empty cup of coffee, her eyes wide with faux innocence.
“Oh my God,” Celeste gasped. “I am so clumsy sometimes.”
The girls behind her giggled into their hands.
Ziba clenched her jaw. She wasn’t stupid. She knew what this was.
She exhaled slowly. “It’s fine,” she muttered, reaching for napkins from her bag.
Celeste tilted her head. "Are you sure? I feel so bad. Maybe I should buy you new books? Oh wait…" she let out a fake laugh. "Do you even use money like we do?"
Laughter rippled around them.
Ziba’s fingers tightened around her damp pages.
Celeste leaned in slightly. "You know, you shouldn’t be so eager in class."
Ziba met her gaze. "Excuse me?"
Celeste smiled, "People like you?" She twirled a strand of her perfect hair. "You stand out too much and it makes you look desperate."
Ziba’s heart pounded, but she refused to shrink.
She tilted her head. "And people like you?" She gave Celeste the same, sweet smile. "You try too hard to act important."
The silence that followed was deadly.
Celeste’s eyes flashed, but then she laughed.
A slow, amused chuckle, like she was entertained.
She leaned in just a little more, lowering her voice so only Ziba could hear.
"You have guts," she murmured. "I like that."
Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and walked off, her entourage following like well-trained pets.
Ziba exhaled slowly.
She had a feeling that was only the beginning.
And she was right.
- Writer
