11
A group of teenagers approached me, their leader’s gaze challenging.
I lifted an eyelid, ignored them, and went back to my game.
The boy, feeling slighted, pressed on. “I’m talking to you. I heard your family were butchers. No wonder you have no manners.” He sneered. “Spen- ding all your time with pigs, you probably don’t even know what to do with your hands and feet in a place like this, right? That’s why you’re hiding in
a corner with your phone.”
Without looking up, I said, “Same here.”
The boy didn’t get it at first. Someone next to him had to whisper what I meant. Realization dawned, and he flushed with anger.
The commotion drew attention. Soon, Mrs. Blackwell appeared with Lily in tow, her brow furrowing at the scene. “Mia, didn’t I tell you not to cause
trouble? How can you be so reckless? Don’t you know where you are?”
I put down my phone and looked up at her, explaining calmly, “He started it.”
The boy protested, claiming he was just trying to be friendly, but I had ignored him and insulted him. His friends all chimed in to support him.
“I wasn’t even looking down on her for being a butcher’s girl, and she has the nerve to mock me. Hmph. Just as you’d expect from someone from
the countryside. No class at all.”
Mrs. Blackwell felt her face burn. She had never been so humiliated. Seeing me still looking completely unbothered, head down and playing on my phone again, her anger boiled over.
She snatched the phone from my hands and threw it on the floor. “All you do is play on that phone!” she seethed. “You let everything I say go in one ear and out the other! Why did I have to give birth to a daughter like you…” She clutched her chest, looking genuinely pained. Lily rushed to her side, comforting her.
Others tried to smooth things over, muttering about rebellious teenagers.
I stared down at my phone on the floor, silent.
A fair, slender hand picked it up and held it out to me. “Here. Luckily, it’s not broken.” The young man winked at me, his smile warm. “You play this game, too? You look like a pro. We should play together sometime.”
The young man’s arrival quieted the surrounding crowd. Mrs. Blackwell was taken aback. “Mr. Croft, what are you…?”
The newcomer was the host of the party, the heir to the Croft fortune, Julian Croft.
“Mrs. Blackwell,” Julian said smoothly, “your daughter isn’t just playing some ordinary game. This was developed jointly by several top universities,
including Northwood. Anyone on that leaderboard is a prospect for a top–tier university.”
Mrs. Blackwell’s mind struggled to keep up. “Playing a game can get you into a top university?”
Julian’s tone was regretfu
ed at me:
I blinked, confused.
“Even though I was the top scorer on the SATs, I could only ever make it to number two on that leaderboard.” He glanc-
A murmur went through the crowd. The boy who’d accosted me stared, his eyes wide with shock. “Julian, are you saying she has an invite to that
game? That’s impossible!”
game?
The crowd’s attention was now fully captured by the game. The boy was a massive fan but had never been able to get an invite. He was also a
fervent admirer of the person who had permanently occupied the number one spot on the leaderboard.
“M is just so mysterious,” he sighed. “I wonder if I’ll ever get to see them in my lifetime.”
I gave him a cool, sidelong glance.
Heh.
