A Walk by Dragons

Vibrations in a Alien Planet

Dad drove me to my first day of school. I'd figured rich people had their kids driven by snotty chaperones or butlers, but since moving here, I hadn't seen a single butler (talk about a letdown). The only 'servant' Dad had was Denise, the taciturn cook, who also doubled up as a maid. This made me wonder why he had a big house in the first place.

"It looks bigger than it really is," he said. "It's probably because I have a lot of toys."

So, what, did you need extra sitting rooms for your car parts? Whatever. Either way, it kind of took the Hollywood ring from my new life. I mean, come on, where's the fun in having dough if you don't get some British Sebastian sneering at whoever dares to knock on your door and calling you such things as 'miss' and 'milady.'

My phone vibrated in the breast pocket of my uniform.

"Here we are," said Dad, as though turning into Disneyland.

I looked around and felt like an idiot. I couldn't see the school. There are just a bunch of mansions in that bricky, modern Greek style with lots of windows. Oh, and trees. Always trees. The little desert rat inside me still paid homage to every tree taller than a house I saw like some pagan wild man, as the trees in the rocky, deserted Midwest rarely rose above bush status.

Then I saw the kids wearing the same uniforms as me and slapped my face into the back of the front seat.

"Dad," Oh god, "what have you brought me to?"

"It's a private school nearby; I know a few of the teachers. They're great!"

Up cropped the image of the crappy, red-orange 60's brick of my last school. The linoleum had even been that weird noodle-skin color with flecks of brown.

My phone vibrated again.

"You nervous?" he asked.

"Please. I've been the new girl so often it's a permanent gig." What could be different with a rich pig school? Right? Right?

He had the tact enough to frown. "That mom of yours sure does move a lot. You'd think it hurt her to stay put for more than a year."

I shrugged. I didn't want to talk about it, let alone think about it. It would bring up the ugly, burnt Poptart feeling in my gut, making me want to throw myself into a river somewhere—Ophelia myself.

"Hey! See that kid right there?" Dad squashed his fingertip against the tinted window. "The one next to the Botticelli statue. That's Cecil Brown, son of one of my best friends. Told him you were coming here. He's excited to meet you."

First, what kind of name was Cecil? I had no idea what Botticelli was, but seeing as there was only one statue within line of sight, I squinted at what had to be the kid he was pointing at. He didn't look excited. If anything, he just looked...bored.

"I'll just drop you off by him."

Ugh. "Please don't."

"It'll be great!" Okay, now he was starting to sound like a Frosted Flakes commercial. "I've already told him all about you, he's a really nice guy, you'll like him."

I groaned inwardly but stayed quiet. If it made Dad happy, fine—though everything made him happy. My dad was a freaking sheet of bubble wrap.

Another phone vibration.

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I probably shouldn't be listening to a documentary on obesity in America.