Chapter 2: Weston Academy

Chapter 2Weston Academy

He wished he hadn’t been so numb when deciding on new schools. If he’d been more involved instead of feigning interest, his new mom might not have picked a school for him. Yet he wasn’t, and she did. Here he was now, shoved in some uniform he swore he’d burn once he graduated, absolutely sure that there wouldn’t be a single person at “Weston Academy” that he could relate to–honestly, not a totally ham-fisted opinion.
Laura dropped him off and wished him a good day. Like being sent to school with a bunch of tasteless fucks could ever be good.
The other students watched him stroll on by, this 5’8” with a curly mop down past his shoulders and boots stained like he’d just gotten done working. Which, in all honesty, might not even be a stretch to assume. Not that he cared even a little about what any of them thought. Anything they could inflict was inconsequential compared to losing his father. In that exact moment, there was only one person he was interested in talking to: the person giving him his schedule. The sooner orientation was done, the better. He couldn’t stand how sanitised the campus was. How grandiose its corridors were. How ostentatious its furniture was. How “proud” it seemed of its many trophies. It didn’t matter at all to him. He didn’t hate it, per se, just found himself very annoyed by it–the same way a disco ball hurts to look at. And thus, once orientation was over, he was out of there. It pained him knowing that he’d have to be going back here next week.
He went home that day and decided to hang out with Olivia. He never had to go far to find her. No matter what, she always seemed to be lurking behind a nearby corner.
“What is it that troubles you, ma petit Justin?” she asked, picking petals out of a lily of the valley.
“I don’t wanna go to Weston,” he said flatly.
“I really don’t know what maman expects. Putting you in there is like throwing a jerboa into a prairie and expecting it to survive.”
“The hell’s a jerboa?”
“Irrelevant.”
He sighed. He didn’t like the prospect of going somewhere undoubtedly so rich and white it may as well be a cheesecake. Olivia could tell. She always could–whether that was her being a witch or her being a good reader remained unknown. She sat up and looked him directly in the eyes, the ankh on her forehead clearly in view.
“How about I go with you? It is still not too late, I think.”
“Uh… You sure?”
“What is the worst that happens? I learn more about some awful country I have no plans to stay in for the long term?”
“Well, when you put it that way…”
And so she did just that, transferring from her French correspondence school to Weston, becoming a Junior.
He returned to school with his best friend by his side. She towered over him, dressed in all black—or as much as the dress code would allow. Other students stared at her like she was an anomaly. In many ways, she was. She was a French noble of a bloodline older than America. The oldest line of legacy students at Weston at best traced back to the Reagan administration. Naturally, Olivia Marie de Hauteville de Glucksbourg, daughter of Jehan Étienne de Hautevile, seigneur of Hauteville la Guichard, caught the attention of almost every student at Weston. Justino, meanwhile, remained beneath anyone’s attention. Did he stick out? Sure. But at the very least, no one tried to talk to him. That was the most important part. Talking to people was exhausting, almost painful. What the hell would he have to say to any of them anyhow? They’re all just rich fucks, sheltered from the real world and caught up in bullshit that at the end of the day doesn’t matter.
Justino didn’t play much attention to his classes. He said the bare minimum of what he needed to and then left when class ended. When lunch came around, he snuck his way to the dumpsters behind the gym. He didn’t mind the smell. In a weird way it reminded him of the shady places he used to call home. Olivia found him and sat beside him, speaking no words. She offered him a clove cigarette. He took one, using his zippo to light it up. They passed around the same cigarette, taking turns with hits.
“I don’t even like cloves,” he said.
“I know,” said Olivia with an exhale. Smoke came out in rings. Even an aristocrat seems to smoke like a chimney.
There’s nothing else shared between them beyond that. They just stare out at the mountains in the distance. No jokes, no banter, nothing. Silence…
The end of lunch saw them return to their respective classes like nothing had happened. Justino stamped out the cigarette and tossed it in the trash.
At the end of the day, Laura came to pick them up from school. They said nothing in the car ride—nothing real, anyhow. Just autopiloted responses that the first day was “exciting.” Sifted and sanitised, words readily accepted by their mother.