Agreements With Mr Rich Boy | ✓

2 | Uniform

IT STILL HADN'T SUNK IN by the time I was in London, in search for the things I would need for school, that I'd gotten into Attwood. Mum had stayed at home, telling me I would do better on my own, but I knew the real reason: she was too tired.

I rarely went into London, least not on my own. The first reason being it was far away; the second being I simply couldn't afford the capital's ridiculous prices, not when Mum couldn't work anymore so all our income was due to me.

I didn't have a degree. I couldn't work a proper job, and earn enough money to keep us safely afloat. The only reason our house wasn't a shack, was because it had been my grandmas. We would have had a lot more money— if my dad hadn't run away with it all, likely having gambled it all away.

I tried not to think of him. I could barely put a face to his name, and even that I couldn't be sure of. I kept his last name, though. I knew it wasn't because I just hadn't 'gotten around' to changing it, and was instead because I wanted to keep ahold of something of him, even if it was no more than a piece of paper binding us together.

The streets were teeming with people, as usual. They bustled about, alongside the stream of cars, and jostled me this way and that. I desperately tried to keep control of my breathing, in and out, in and out. Being from quite a bit further south, it got busy, but not nearly as busy as this. I struggled to not topple over when I was shoved particularly roughly. I knew a Saturday probably wasn't the best day to be coming up here, but I didn't have much choice.

The uniform shop was tucked away from the major stores, which I supposed was a good thing. Not nearly so many people drifted down the side road on which it stood. I didn't know why they'd put it there at first, but then realised this is where many of the students would live— in one of the large houses in Chelsea or Kensington.

I passed a business woman, decked in a pantsuit and simplistic, yet overly expensive, jewellery. Her hair was styled as professionally as her clothes and as she passed, I pretended not to notice her glance at my own attire. Maybe I didn't wear designer, tailored cut things, but I still put effort into what I wore, if only a little. I liked to think that even if I had all the money in the world, I'd still choose my ripped jeans and oversized jumper.

Above the store read in large, elegant letters: MICHAELSON & CO. I wondered how often this Michaelson actually went to the shop. I rolled my eyes at the obvious answer, never. They probably sat at home, in their country manor or even city apartment, counting notes as they rolled in.

I went to push on the door, before realising it wasn't openable from outside without a key. I looked to my right at the small keypad and pushed the call button. The lady on the desk looked up at me from behind her glasses, and raised the phone to her ear.

"Yes?" She asked, making it obvious she was scrutinising my appearance as she gazed up, then down again at me.

"I'm here for Attwood Academy... urm... uniform?" I hadn't meant it to sound like a question, or stutter half as much as I did, but with her gazing at me with such distaste, it made my knees tremble.

"Do you have your acceptance letter?" She looked clearly bored, and I could hear it in her voice.

"Y-yes," I stuttered, once again. I took the envelope with the letter inside it from my bag and held it up to the window, unsure. She pushed a small button under the counter. I jumped when a drop box suddenly opened. She motioned with her hand, and I gingerly placed the paper in.

It closed promptly after, and I watched as it reappeared with her. She looked at it closely, bringing it impossibly close to her face and even going so far as raising a magnifying glass to it.