So here I am, incorrigible as always, with the second chapter of Damien Chandler's misadventures and coming of age. I hope you like this chapter. Your votes, comments and private feedback mean the world to me, so please leave them on the way out.
A shout of thanks to my editors KatieTay and NaokoSmith, without whose help this chapter would probably have been unreadable.
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WELLESLEY ACADEMY
The name is emblazoned in large, ornate letters on a granite slab by the side of the road. Legend has it that this stone fell to Earth from the deepest reaches of space, carrying with it infinite knowledge of our universe. In celebration, an academy was built nearby to instil this aforementioned knowledge into the brightest young minds of our time and mould them into the future leaders that the world needs, but does not deserve.
Or... some rich guy named Wellesley came up with the idea of a private school for the ultra-elite in New York. The fees per semester are roughly equal to the GDP of Burkina Faso on a good year. An overwhelming majority of the students have too much money and no interest in academia. Goaded by their parents into joining the ranks of the highest echelon of society, they trudge to school and meet their fellow "sufferers". This institution is an assembly line, inevitably leading to an Ivy League admission.
Choose whichever of the explanations seem more plausible to you, it doesn't change the fact that I found myself staring at the sign on Monday morning. If I stared hard enough, maybe that rock would splinter into a million shards.
"Come on, Damien. Assembly in five."
"Be right there, Marc."
I walked slowly into the straight file of students. A few faces smiled at me, others were too absorbed in their own thoughts. Columns of students stood at rapt attention as our principal doled out his morning dose of soporific words. I swear, I have to start taking amphetamines one of these days if I am to remain awake through this painful ritual.
"Mr Damien Chandler."
My eyes snapped open at the mention of my name. Suddenly, everyone was turning their heads to look at me and wondering what I could possibly have done to merit a direct mention during assembly. The tormentor up front, Mr Steinberg, adjusted his horn rimmed glasses and observed me keenly in the usual manner of a high-energy laser aimed straight at its target. He cleared his throat.
"Mr Chandler, kindly come to my office before proceeding to your first class," he said, (surely I was imagining that his tone had the timbre of Hannibal Lecter's.) I resumed staring intently at my shoes for the remainder of the assembly.
Mindless chatter filled the corridor. Everybody made their way to their respective classrooms, leaving me to set forth on my journey to Steinberg's office. Outside what was both affectionately and aptly known as 'the torture chamber', sat Steinberg's secretary, Lori Sanders. I can never be in her proximity without feeling her undressing me with those sharp eyes behind her glasses.
Sure enough, I could feel her predatory gaze and almost see the whimsically inventive sex I would be having inside her head. She got up and gave me her best come-hither look before reluctantly letting me pass her into the office.
I entered the lion's den with my head discreetly lowered. Steinberg was sitting behind his polished mahogany desk, looking through some paperwork.
"Mr Chandler, please have a seat."
Not a flicker of emotion. His eyes never moved from his papers. Finally, those sunken eyeballs lifted up to pierce me with the laser-beam effect.
"I have received an invitation for an inter-school debate at Columbia University next week. Are you willing to represent us?"
I sighed with relief. A smile, a nod and a reassurance later, I was on my way back to class. I took my seat somewhere near the back of the class, beside Marc.
"What did Steinberg want?"
"A debate hosted at Columbia. I'm representing the school," I whispered in his direction, hurriedly taking out the requisite notebooks.
Marc is a good guy. His father is a construction worker and his mother, a city employee. Till last year, he could not even dream of Wellesley. Fortunately, his father happened to find a dead fly in his can of Diet Coke after a long and arduous day's work. The New York civil court, with their sound judgement, ordered Coca Cola to pay around half a million for negligent infliction of emotional distress, three hundred grand for negligent infliction of possible bodily harm and a whopping three million in punitive damages.
Yes, we are very proud of the personal injury laws in this state.
Marc certainly is. He went from a derelict, mouldy apartment and an overcrowded public school to a posh house on Lex and the chair beside me. I like him. He has the hardened exterior and panache of a boy who grew up in the Bronx; no amount of money could change that. He is deceptively smart with the etiquette of a hobo. His family recently went to Le Cirque and licked the tender vichyssoise and crème anglaise off their fingers. No one said a thing, after all their money is just as green as mine.
My eyes dimmed the longer the lecture dragged on. I spied on another member of the nouveau riche near the front row. Jasmine Salador, in all her red-haired glory. Her entrance into the rich list was carefully plotted by her mother, Susan, who was a struggling single Mom before she found an old rich guy with a terminal illness. These rich men are of course exceptionally easy to manipulate into signing over everything in their dying moments. Putting up with his whims for a few months paid Susan -- and Jasmine - dividends for the rest of their lives.
'Who am I to judge?' I thought. 'All my money also comes from preying on the base desires of others.'
My mind drifted back and forth in class, my hand writing away in a mechanical rhythm. My body is conditioned to take notes, even without being aware what I am taking notes on. The bell rang, jolting me back to the present. Jasmine got up and sauntered over to me, shaking that flaming mass of hair behind her head with a swish.
"Steinberg told you about the debate, right?" she asked casually.
"How do you know?"
"I know he's been itching to prove that Wellesley excels in all extra-curricular activities. This debate is a chance for him to claim debate as our forte," Jasmine answered. "You're the best debater here and Steinberg personally called you to his office. All that adds up to...?"
"Yes, he chose me," I said, surprised at her forwardness.
"I want to be your partner for the debate," she said firmly, oblivious to the restless class around her.
"Seriously?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Very seriously," she said. "Come over to my place this evening to start discussing some talking points."
Jasmine never asks questions, it's always an order. She has firebrand radical opinions on most issues and is not afraid to air them publicly. Her voice never wavers and never shows weakness. She will not back down from an argument. Ever.
In short, there is no one I would rather have on my side.
"Come over around four. We should at least have a rough outline prepared by tonight."
Very businesslike, she walked off. Jasmine is nothing like her gold-digger mother. She is bent on making her own name in the world. Some day, I will be proud to say that I was once part of a debate team with her.
The next class began. Mrs Lovelace did her level best to make me detest World History. There was an incessant clicking around me as my fellow scholars expressed their views on the class on Twitter using #boring and #hatehistory. Some of them were texting each other, estimating the size of Mrs Lovelace's breasts.
Class followed class with dreary monotony. My eyes scanned all the desks, looking for someone. There were rows and rows of heads, but not the adorable smooth brown hair coming down to the shoulders. Every chance I got in that smorgasbord of academic tedium, I spent looking for her but it was not until after an exceptionally painful hour of Chemistry, that I caught a glimpse of her and smiled for the first time that day.
Kathy McHale, the only one in the class who does not have money to burn. Wellesley is kind enough to allow one scholarship student to be part of each batch. Every year, thousands of students apply for that one coveted spot and for my year, she was the lucky one. She is always shy and reserved, but exceptionally beautiful. The fact that she has to earn everything in her life makes her even more special. Behind that plaid skirt and poorly done hair, Kathy remained virgin to the corrupting forces of wealth.
