Read Online Scarlett Epstein Hates It Here by Anna Breslaw - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anna Breslaw
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later, and Gideon could recite the hard sell by heart.
[To billionaire.] Listen. All it takes is one down payment and a very reasonable time line to pay the balance, and you’ll be happy for the rest of your life. That’s the only thing this product is wired for. They won’t turn down tickets to the Stones because they’re too tired. They won’t drink three glasses of white wine and ignore you. They’re not cranky. They’re not complicated. They’re not . . . [dramatic pause, air of horror] real.
It worked massively well. Forbes -well. The Maclaines were nationally, legendarily wealthy. And to be honest, after goingthrough what he was sure was one of the stranger puberties in history, Gideon was totally used to them. Blasé, even. At this point he sort of saw them as can openers with cleavage.
So they decided to skew younger. Who cares?
* * *
The fact that Dean Arnolds appeared visibly psyched and Dean Jacobs looked incredibly depressed was an immediate giveaway. The five hundred students assembled in Maclaine Hall immediately started whispering and smacking one another on the shoulder. Most of them knew what was coming. The Internet’s good like that. Some of them didn’t dare hope for it. Others had sworn up and down that if it happened, they’d transfer to the local public school, zombie teachers and lackluster facilities be damned.
“We have an announcement—” Dean Jacobs began.
“We have a fantastic announcement.” Dean Arnolds beamed.
Dean Jacobs glared at him, and he wilted just a bit as she continued.
“We are thrilled to announce,” Dean Jacobs unconvincingly lied, “that we’ve been chosen as one of the first secondary institutions to host Miss Ordinarias.”
Immediately, enough male students’ eyes lit up that you could see it from space, with the exception of a bored handful who wondered, God, where are the male ones already? The girls were sullen, scuffing their penny loafers against the hardwood floor. One girl right next to Gideon began to sob.
“As you may know,” Dean Jacobs continued, her face increasingly deadening, “while Ordinarias are primarily mark-eted to ages thirty-five to sixty, Miss Ordinarias are designed to appeal to the eighteen-to-twenty-five demographic.”
A collective slap as two hundred high fives were given.
“ Attention! ” snapped Dean Jacobs, stomping her designer heel once, hard.
Everyone was quiet again.
“This is still Pembrooke, and I fully expect every one of you to act accordingly,” she barked. Underneath, her defeat was audible.
“Oh, lighten up, Shelly!” said Dean Arnolds, slapping her on the fragile back so heartily that she stumbled forward. She tugged the hem of her suit back in place and glared daggers at him. He didn’t care.
“I hope you all know who to thank for this,” bellowed Dean Arnolds cheerfully. “Because his son is among you. Right here . . . in . . . this . . . room. Gideon Maclaine, where are you?”
Then 999 eyes (those of all five hundred students, including Kenny Adaire, who’d lost an eye last summer in a freak racquetball accident) flaring with all sorts of emotions turned toward Gideon at once.
For a second you could hear a pin drop, if anybody had a pin. But nobody had a pin, so the only thing plummeting was Dean Jacobs’s patience.
The sobbing girl broke the silence by crying harder while glaring at Gideon, which was terrible. Whenever he saw a girlcrying, even a random one in the quad, he felt weirdly guilty, like he was somehow responsible. This time, he actually was responsible.
“Son of Mitchell Maclaine,” Dean Arnolds continued. Gideon felt like he was in the Bible. “CEO of Ordinaria Inc., who’s an entrepreneur, an innovator, and a massive donor I’m sure we’re all incredibly grateful for.”
That last bit was pointed, clearly addressed to the girls: Remember the name of this hall. Remember who funded your equestrian classes. Where you should have learned to REIN IT
[To billionaire.] Listen. All it takes is one down payment and a very reasonable time line to pay the balance, and you’ll be happy for the rest of your life. That’s the only thing this product is wired for. They won’t turn down tickets to the Stones because they’re too tired. They won’t drink three glasses of white wine and ignore you. They’re not cranky. They’re not complicated. They’re not . . . [dramatic pause, air of horror] real.
It worked massively well. Forbes -well. The Maclaines were nationally, legendarily wealthy. And to be honest, after goingthrough what he was sure was one of the stranger puberties in history, Gideon was totally used to them. Blasé, even. At this point he sort of saw them as can openers with cleavage.
So they decided to skew younger. Who cares?
* * *
The fact that Dean Arnolds appeared visibly psyched and Dean Jacobs looked incredibly depressed was an immediate giveaway. The five hundred students assembled in Maclaine Hall immediately started whispering and smacking one another on the shoulder. Most of them knew what was coming. The Internet’s good like that. Some of them didn’t dare hope for it. Others had sworn up and down that if it happened, they’d transfer to the local public school, zombie teachers and lackluster facilities be damned.
“We have an announcement—” Dean Jacobs began.
“We have a fantastic announcement.” Dean Arnolds beamed.
Dean Jacobs glared at him, and he wilted just a bit as she continued.
“We are thrilled to announce,” Dean Jacobs unconvincingly lied, “that we’ve been chosen as one of the first secondary institutions to host Miss Ordinarias.”
Immediately, enough male students’ eyes lit up that you could see it from space, with the exception of a bored handful who wondered, God, where are the male ones already? The girls were sullen, scuffing their penny loafers against the hardwood floor. One girl right next to Gideon began to sob.
“As you may know,” Dean Jacobs continued, her face increasingly deadening, “while Ordinarias are primarily mark-eted to ages thirty-five to sixty, Miss Ordinarias are designed to appeal to the eighteen-to-twenty-five demographic.”
A collective slap as two hundred high fives were given.
“ Attention! ” snapped Dean Jacobs, stomping her designer heel once, hard.
Everyone was quiet again.
“This is still Pembrooke, and I fully expect every one of you to act accordingly,” she barked. Underneath, her defeat was audible.
“Oh, lighten up, Shelly!” said Dean Arnolds, slapping her on the fragile back so heartily that she stumbled forward. She tugged the hem of her suit back in place and glared daggers at him. He didn’t care.
“I hope you all know who to thank for this,” bellowed Dean Arnolds cheerfully. “Because his son is among you. Right here . . . in . . . this . . . room. Gideon Maclaine, where are you?”
Then 999 eyes (those of all five hundred students, including Kenny Adaire, who’d lost an eye last summer in a freak racquetball accident) flaring with all sorts of emotions turned toward Gideon at once.
For a second you could hear a pin drop, if anybody had a pin. But nobody had a pin, so the only thing plummeting was Dean Jacobs’s patience.
The sobbing girl broke the silence by crying harder while glaring at Gideon, which was terrible. Whenever he saw a girlcrying, even a random one in the quad, he felt weirdly guilty, like he was somehow responsible. This time, he actually was responsible.
“Son of Mitchell Maclaine,” Dean Arnolds continued. Gideon felt like he was in the Bible. “CEO of Ordinaria Inc., who’s an entrepreneur, an innovator, and a massive donor I’m sure we’re all incredibly grateful for.”
That last bit was pointed, clearly addressed to the girls: Remember the name of this hall. Remember who funded your equestrian classes. Where you should have learned to REIN IT
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