Curtain Call

ACT 1: SCENE 9

CLASS RANKS WERE RELEASED FOR THE FALL QUARTER.

A series of pings alerted all students of a new email from Westminster administration.

Aarav swallowed hard and opened the school app, fingers hovering over the small blue circle. His chest tightened and he bit down hard enough on his tongue to taste the metallic tang of blood.

1 out of 213.

Around him, the whispers grew louder. They knew. Everyone knew. Waiting. Watching. Classmates spiraling around him like vultures. Vying for a hint of weakness, a moment where he slipped up, the day he'd tumble off the precipice.

Aarav straightened his shoulders and stared straight ahead. Madison Aster's eyes burned into the back of his head. He clicked off the phone and slid it into his pocket. She was like a snake, lying in the grass, waiting to pounce on the valedictorian title. He gritted his teeth and pressed his twitching hands against the desk.

He wouldn't be her prey. Wouldn't be one of the students she'd trampled over in her rise to the top. People like Madison—born into white old money—lived in a world preprogrammed for their success. Aarav's parents had arrived in the country with nothing and built a tech empire from the ground up, clawing at the shards of the American dream, breaking down the gates that barred them with nothing but sheer willpower. The dirt of their fingernails became shreds of the night sky, ripped away as his parents climbed their way to the top.

Aarav couldn't afford to fail. Not when all eyes were on him, bidding for his downfall. No one knew how far he was willing to go in order to keep face for his family. Every sacrifice his parents had made carved deep into their household, a blood oath to always succeed.

Succeed or die trying.

Mistakes weren't allowed. Not when he'd been born with the opportunities his parents had fought so desperately for him to have. Aarav would do anything in the chase after the impossible expectations set for him. Contort his mind and body to fit into the picture-perfect life mapped out for him.

From across the room, his eyes met those Iris. Her dark pupils mirrored his. They were one and the same. Cut from the same cloth. Swatches of fabric that didn't belong in the sea of white faces and European features. The bleeding crimson lines that marked mistakes where softer, less red when it came to others. But when ethnicity marked them as outsiders, the snickers readily spread when they slipped up.

Never enough.

Because no one would accept that they'd made it on their own merit. That they'd beaten everyone else fair and square. They always had to have some trick, some secret hidden up their sleeve.

Aarav gritted his teeth and his fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his skin.

Fuck all of them.

When the bell rang, he gathered his books and strode out the door without another glance. Iris fell into step beside him. Ranks one and three. She didn't have to ask and he didn't either. Despite the weight of competition, a comfortable steady silence settled between him.

Iris was different from most of them. Despite the cutthroat competitive culture of Westminster Academy, she was earnestly helpful and supportive. She'd climbed to the top of the ladder with nothing but determination—an impressive feat when the school bled desperation and cheating from every elite, expensive brick.