My name is Kera Collins, and I would do anything for a
golden nod.
At first glance, my life appears perfect: the best friends,
the best school, the attention of Dex Albright, the deliciously irresistible
grandson to the Headmaster. All I need is the prestige behind La Boheme, an
elite secret society formed within the walls of my school, and my life would be
complete. Once I’m in, I’ll be the one with all of the secrets.
I know most people don’t get excited about the beginning of
another school year, but I’m not most people, and this isn’t your ordinary
school. And somewhere deep inside, I think there’s a tiny glimmer of hope that
maybe this will be the year I get a golden envelope.
It sounds hilarious and fake, but it’s legit, and the
definition behind Grove’s legacy of A-list alumni.
La Boheme.
A secret society offering immediate acceptance into an Ivy
League of your choice. Social proof that lasts for decades. First dibs on
societies that are just tiny rumors on our nation’s radar.
Skull and Bones.
Euclians.
From there, the influence is unlimited. The society dates
back to our school’s origin and holds roots in the birth of some of the most
promising universities. Essentially, La Boheme is the breeding ground for the
nation’s elite.
The envelopes come the first week of school. I would do
anything for a golden nod. I rub my fingers together in a small circle and
daydream about endless funds and absolute power.
We make our way down the cobblestone drive and I watch the
lacrosse team, already on campus for practices, run drills on a nearby field.
Given the way a few of them keep tripping over their sticks, I imagine this
must be the first year team. To their right a few guys throw a football across
the quad. Everywhere students are getting situated and carrying boxes into
their tiny rooms, now makeshift homes until Christmas break.
A slow smile spreads across my face and I nervously tap my
fingers against my bare legs. My phone vibrates and I glance down to read the
text. It’s Season.
OMG where are you?!
You’ll never believe the rug I
brought back from Bali. It’s
divine.
I shake my head and type in a quick response.
It’s
about time you texted. I just got here. Be there soon.
I shift in my seat with anticipation. This year, Season and
I managed to get into Ivy Hall, the building reserved for a select number of
seniors. It’s by and large the most striking of the dorms, with stone edifices
and ivy that snakes it’s way up and over the walls. For the past three years,
we dreamed about living here one day. It rests against the back of the campus
and in front of a wooded area that’s a rumored host to many soirees reserved
for the third and fourth years. But that’s just a cover. Those parties?
They’re La Boheme.
At least, that’s what I’ve heard.
Just getting into the dorm feels like a transcendent
promise.
I gaze out the window and shuffle my feet in anticipation.
Elora Ramirez has been telling stories her whole life.
It started when she was four, when she taught herself how to
read and write as a way to entertain herself while her grandmother kicked and
danced in aerobics class. She cut her teeth on books from Dr. Seuss and writing
anywhere she could find the space -- including her Fischer Price kitchenette,
the pages of picture books, and Highlights Magazines.
She's matured a bit since then, now choosing to write in the
margins of her books and on the mirrors of her apartment ideas and thoughts
surrounding story and what makes us human. You can read more on her blog,
eloranicole.com
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