the bet → brad simpson | ✓

1

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗
𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙣𝙚: 𝙜𝙪𝙘𝙘𝙞 𝙗𝙖𝙜𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙧𝙪𝙞𝙩 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙥𝙨
╚═══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

"I swear to God, Tas, if you don't get out of this car right now, I'll push you out myself and run you over," my mother says with a bright smile.

"Swearing to God is a sin," I shake my head and tut. "Priest John wouldn't like that, now, would he?"

"He doesn't like a lot of things," my mother mumbles, talking about how Priest John had once declined her cookies that she'd spent three hours making.

In all honesty, they tasted like moist card board and cocoa powder—they were certainly not the best of cookies I'd ever eaten, and I've had my fair share of terrible cookies.

"They tasted like rock, mom," I reply with a snort, resitting in her giving me a glare.

"Whatever! Get your ass out of the car and go to school!"

"I swear it's, like, illegal to make someone get up this early and spend six hours straight doing work only to do an hour's worth of homework on top of that," I shake my head and my mom raises her eyebrows. I put my hands up in defence before opening my car door. "Okay, okay, I'm getting out."

Once the door was closed, she quickly pulled off of the pavement and down the road, thankfully not running me over. I watch the car go out of sight and then turn to look at the school.

It looked like a prison, if I'm completely honest with you.

It was your typical high school—a big building with the soccer team's logo on the front of a flag that hung up at the entrance.

You do running marathons, I do Netflix marathons.

I look at all the people walking around and everyone mixed in well—obviously there was a slight divide between the ones that walk around with Gucci bags that seem like dollar store bags to them and then ones that actually have dollar store bags but huge ass books in their arms.

"You're new, right?" I cheerful voice says from behind me and I turn around to see a petite, blonde girl smiling at me. "I love your hair!"

Even though I saw my hair this morning when I brushed through it, I look down at the black strands that fell to my shoulders.

"I need a haircut," I think out-loud and look back up at the blonde. "And yeah, I'm new. Do you mind giving me directions to the school office?"

"Of course," she says and links my arm with hers, being friendly. "I'm Luisa, by the way."

"You're English?" I say stupidly—it shouldn't be odd for me to hear a British accent in New York since plenty of English people live in Brooklyn, near me.

"If you couldn't tell by the accent, yes," she laughs. "Many English people come to school here, since our school has this international contract with some of the best English schools, and they often transfer people. They're all that's, though."

"Oh."

"Where'd you transfer from?"

"A school in Brooklyn," I say. "My mom got a scholarship letter a couple weeks before the end of last year."

"That's awesome! Most people here have so much money that they paid to be here," Luisa admits and we walk past everyone, their eyes on me.

It didn't feel relieving to hear everyone—or most people—bought their way into this school. That means their families are rich whilst my family aren't. We've had financial issues ever since my mom and dad split up, only just managing the basic necessities we needed.