Have one eye open

9| NEW

Coco Vargas (NYC)

I had mentally prepared myself for this.

Standing on the polished marble of the Vargas mansion, I tried to keep my cool as I faced my first day at a private school for the elite. Or at least, that's how Kenzo described it—with all the flair of someone who'd never had to be afraid of being seen.

Last night, I sat with my brothers in the massive salon—a room that felt more like an art gallery than a living space, with vaulted ceilings and antique decor. It had been ten years since we were all together, but somehow, things felt... familiar. No awkward pauses or stiff silences. Just us, like the years hadn't stolen anything we couldn't take back.

Ajax, being Ajax, decided it was time for a "tour" of the property—a theatrical showcase, really. I let him have his moment. Now I knew every hallway, camera angle, and emergency exit in case I needed them. We talked for hours without once mentioning my time in the facility. That conversation had already happened, right after I came back. Once was enough. Some pain doesn't need to be relived—it just needs to be buried deep.

I appreciated that unspoken agreement. My time there was darker than I could ever explain, and I wasn't about to drag them through it.

Of course, the twins teased me to death when they found out I was nervous about school. They thought it was hilarious—a trained fighter, anxious about teenagers. But they didn't understand. It wasn't the people I was afraid of. It was the visibility. School meant public spaces. It meant being exposed. Vulnerable. It meant targets—not just me, but anyone close enough to matter.

Kenzo showed up around eight in the grand entrance, half-asleep and cursing the invention of Mondays. He waved me toward Zeus's motorcycle—the one I'd borrowed after convincing everyone it was the fastest, safest getaway option. Zeus hadn't been thrilled, but practicality always wins in this family.

Kenzo tore off in his Ferrari like a maniac. I followed on the bike, wind screaming in my ears, the cold biting through the morning air. For a few minutes, the rush was all I felt. No past. No fear. Just speed.

But as the school came into view, tension crept back in like smoke under a door.

It was huge—designed like some medieval castle with modern upgrades tacked on. A fortress towering above the rest of the city like royalty above the crowd. Students in designer uniforms milled about the courtyard, dripping wealth and arrogance.

Even from a distance, I saw how many heads turned at Kenzo's car.

"Great," I muttered to myself. The last thing I needed was to be tied to a walking spotlight.

We parked by the front steps. Kenzo tossed me a smirk before vanishing into the crowd like he owned the place. I followed, handing him my helmet at the door and slipping into the main building.

The great hall hit me like a punch. Stained glass, gold-accented trim, tapestries older than the country. A space built to impress—and intimidate.

Whispers started the moment we walked in. I didn't have to turn to know they were staring. At Kenzo. At me. We were a matching set now, whether I liked it or not.

Kenzo handed me a paper schedule with a lazy "See you at lunch," then disappeared into the halls.

I navigated easily. I'd already memorized the building layout last night. Old habits die hard.

When I stepped into my first class, every head turned. Silence fell like a curtain, heavy and uncomfortable. The teacher—a kind-faced woman with copper hair and a warm smile—greeted me without hesitation.

"Good morning! Care to join us?"

I nodded and took a seat in the back, the only one available.

She continued with roll call, making light conversation about some holiday traditions I didn't recognize. When she reached my name, she paused.

"Vargas? Any relation to... Kenzo Vargas?"

A ripple of curiosity spread through the room.

"Yeah. He's my brother," I said flatly.

Gasps. Whispers. Apparently, Kenzo's name carried weight here.

"Interesting," she murmured before moving on, but the stares didn't stop. They clung to me like static, loud even in the silence.

The rest of the class passed in a blur. The lesson was light—something about the semester's reading list—but Ms. Everson was kind. Too kind. I wasn't used to that. It unsettled me more than coldness ever could.

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Three more classes crawled by. The material was basic. Too basic. Boring, even. Everything they taught here was already stored somewhere in my brain—filed, dissected, irrelevant.

And the stares? Still there. Always there. Some curious, some wary. Some felt like threats.

Each class being in a different building didn't help either. The disjointed layout forced me outside between periods, and every time I stepped into daylight, I felt the exposure again. Like a sniper's crosshairs just waiting to line up.

Still, I couldn't help but wonder—just once—what my life might've been like if this had been my normal. If these hallways, not concrete cells, were the backdrop of my childhood.

By lunch, I was supposed to meet Kenzo, so i asked a friendly looking girl about the cafeteria and she pointed me in the right direction.

The cafeteria looked like a five-star hotel lounge—polished floors, sleek tables, a chandelier, of all things. I stepped inside and let the buzz of conversation wash over me.

Ten minutes late. Maybe more.

The stares hit me before I even made it halfway across the room.

Kenzo, of course, sat dead center like a king at his throne, surrounded by athletes and girls with glossy hair and fake laughs. When he saw me, he gave a lazy nod, motioning for me to come over.

I didn't hesitate. Just walked calmly toward the table, tuning out the murmurs.

One girl—platinum blonde, narrowed eyes—gave me a sneer straight out of a high school drama. I ignored her. Kenzo was already leaning toward me, grinning.

"...And yeah, this is my little sister, so be nice to her," he announced, ruffling my hair like I was five.

I shot him a glare, but the message landed. The whispers quieted. Attention shifted.

He started introducing me, and I nodded politely, all while silently cataloging the table.

Fourteen people. All polished. All popular.

First were the jocks. Football players, clearly. Lucas sat across from me—tall, broad, quiet. He watched me, not in a creepy way, just... curious.

Roy was the opposite. Flamboyant, flirty, loud. He threw compliments like confetti and winked at anyone with a pulse. Annoying, but kind of charming. His energy was exhausting but infectious.

Then there was James. Pretty-boy perfection with the attitude to match. Smug, cocky, born on third base and thought he hit a home run. He barely spoke to me, just gave me a once-over like I was a new toy to be judged.

And the cheerleaders. Tiffany, Olivia, and Rose—matching outfits, identical smiles, and that sugary tone that made you question every word.

But as all clichés go, they broke the mold. They were actually sweet.

We talked for a few minutes, and I realized—against all odds—I kind of liked them. They even asked me to join the cheer squad.

I declined, of course.

Partly because I wasn't interested. But mostly because I couldn't afford to get attached.

Not here. Not now.