For the first time, Kennedy Marx is not on the Dean's list. Rumor has it that she's failing music theory of all classes. It's a good thing she said goodbye to Juilliard a long time ago.

yours truly,
Queen B.

***

From my high windowsill, I watched luxurious vehicles frame the perimeter of Nouveau's suburban campus. A line of cars wrapped around the entire school and the drive, the traffic congestion comparable to a crowded shopping center during the holidays. October had left most of the tree branches bare and the lawn covered in leaves painted with hues stolen from the sunset.

In the parking lot, personal chauffeurs opened doors for men dressed in designer business suits. Polished leather shoes struck the pavement promptly. Most of the men were still engaged in an international phone call with their trading partners as they entered the building, foreign languages rolling off the tip of their tongues. Their executive lifestyle certainly didn't stop for something as trivial as parent-teacher conferences, especially at the end of a business quarter.

Wives followed their husbands out of the car, the size of the diamond on their ring finger an indicator of their wealth and prosperity. The women clutched their handbags tightly against their bodies and kept their faces glued to their phone screens. Someone had to be responsible for all the planning that went on behind the scenes.

The majority of the families at Nouveau came from old money, a world where women were bred and trained to be housewives and their husband's righthand. They handled the money and kept the records. Parents continued this cycle by passing this lifestyle onto their children. All of it was an endless loop, repetition the sole captor.

As winter approached, the hours of apparent daylight gradually decreased. By the time the clock struck 6:30, the sun had already slipped beyond the horizon. I rolled over onto my stomach and grabbed a hairbrush sitting on my nightstand, pulling the bristles through the knots in my hair. It took me roughly ten minutes to braid my hair, rummage my closet for an outfit, and finish my makeup.

I couldn't remember the last time my dad was able to be physically present at a parent-teacher conference. His research almost always came first if events in his schedule conflicted. Scientists were always racing against time to find the next piece to the puzzle.

To commemorate this occasion and outright anomaly, my dad wanted to take me out for dinner after the conferences with all my teachers. We would be eating at his favorite Italian restaurant, a place where he always used to take my mom. I chose to wear a modest, three-quarter sleeve dress that matched the color of the night sky. At a quarter to seven, my phone vibrated on my bed and told me to meet my dad down in the music wing in roughly ten minutes. I groaned internally as I slipped on my flats, unpleasantly reminded of my failing grade in music theory. That would definitely be discussed at dinner tonight.

Before I left my room, I took one final glance at my reflection in the mirror attached to my closet door. My skin became noticeably paler as the seasons changed, summer's mark only temporary. The longer I stared into my own brown eyes, the more I realized that I was the spitting image of my mom with my hair pulled to the side. Without a second thought, I undid the braid and let my hair fall in loose waves knowing that memory lane was especially painful for my dad.

I walked down the hallways at a moderate pace, passing lost parents with question marks in their eyes. I could only imagine how they felt, comparing the wave of panic that washed over them to the emotions rushing through a freshman wandering the halls for the first time during orientation. The layout of Nouveau was equivalent to a maze, intimidating to say the least.

Parent-teacher conferences always transformed the Nouveau Academy for the Arts and Sciences into a crowded and busy marketplace. New customers, the parents of each individual grade level, explored the streets that doubled as hallways throughout the entire week. The brief change shifted the dynamic in the student population temporarily. Students studied harder for their exams instead of checking up on the gossip or following Queen B.'s blog. This was all part of the illusion custom to any boarding school in the country.

My dad shook Mr. Sykes' hand before he joined me outside the classroom in front of the band lockers. He kept a sincere smile on his face, thanking my teacher again for his precious time. I straightened my posture as Mr. Sykes nodded his head in my direction.

For the past week, I had been purposely avoiding Mr. Sykes' burning gaze in class and during passing periods. It didn't take a medical degree or license to notice the overt disappointment swimming in his forest green irises. As he invited the next parent into his classroom and closed his door behind him, I told myself that his disappointment stemmed from expectations based off a recital he attended too many years ago. He should've known that I wasn't the same girl I was at fourteen years old. No one in this entire school was who they were at fourteen.

After the door slammed shut, my dad turned toward me. He adjusted his glasses, pushing the black frame against the bridge of his nose. My dad was a tall but slender man. The only muscles he needed were in his brain, anyway. His light ash blonde hair was only a shade darker than mine. The one genetic trait I truly inherited from my dad, however, was my eyes. Though his were more expressive than mine would ever be.

"I've missed you so much," I told my dad with a bright smile that stretched from ear to ear.

Before he could say anything to dampen the mood, I pulled him into a hug. He wrapped both of his arms around me and laughed. It had been two whole months since we'd last seen each other.

"I've missed you too," my dad said with equal sincerity. "But we need to talk, Kennedy."

I released a soft sigh as he unwrapped his arms pulled away. The moment I had dreaded all week had finally arrived. Most surprising of all, it expected a warm welcome. As the quiet and taciturn man my dad was, he was simply incapable of experiencing anger. The muscles in his face remained completely relaxed as he addressed me, his voice relatively even. It was always disappointment or surprise that consumed him deeply.

"Kennedy, I think we need to talk about this. This," he clenched my test in his hand, slashes of thick, red ink marking the front page, "is not acceptable. You didn't even try to answer the questions."

We continued to walk down the hallway headed in the direction of the visitor parking lot. When I realized my dad hadn't asked me a direct question, I kept my head down. I was too busy focusing on the pattern of the tiles beneath my feet that I nearly ran into Samira in the physics hallway.

"Sorry, I didn't see you there," I apologized immediately, my face flushing red out of embarrassment. "I should've been watching where I was going."

"Don't worry about it, Kennedy," Samira insisted before briefly introducing me to her parents.

They both smiled at me. Mr. Patel wore an indestructible, ironed suit that managed to survive the day without a single crease. He was a stock broker on Wall Street, a coveted position by many. Mrs. Patel, on the other hand, covered her silky black hair with a traditional hijab. She had grown up in Pakistan for the majority of her life and now managed a restaurant in the city. Their family was rumored to be ridiculously wealthy.

"Jonathan," Mr. Patel shifted his attention to my father, "how was the conference in Sweden?"

The only reason Mr. Patel kept up with my dad's research was because of his ties to the PTA, the Parent Teacher Association. For the past three years, administration had been desperately trying to recruit my father for a position as the head of Nouveau's science department. Anyone who was able to convince Jonathan Marx to abandon his research for a teaching job would be guaranteed full control over Nouveau's underlying and presently troublesome politics. This was exactly what Mr. Patel needed if he was running for president against an incumbent.

My dad was well aware of Mr. Patel's motives but continued to indulge him anyway, highlighting the key points in his current research. The information went right over Mr. Patel's head, cutting the conversation short before he expected. Our two families parted ways within minutes, wishing each other luck getting through the traffic outside in the parking lot. There wasn't much more to be said.

"Were you purposely trying to fail the class?" my dad asked me after we were alone in the hallway. I was an utter and complete fool to think that he had simply forgotten. He, of all people, knew me too well for my own good. "You should be passing this class with your eyes closed, Ken. Is there something you want to tell me?"

"Dad," I said with a strained tone, "can we not talk about this right now? We're supposed to be going out to dinner. I'm starving."

He sighed heavily, lifting his glasses and rubbing his eyes in their sockets. Exhaustion colored my dad gray. "You know Gram and Gran will be disappointed in you when they hear about this, Kennedy."

"I know."

His voice dropped as he told me, "Your mother would be very disappointed in you."

I almost froze in the middle of the hallway, surprised that he decided to play that card out of all of his tricks. What shocked me most was how much the words stung. They left me in deep thought as I rubbed my lips against each other, trying to piece together a response.

"Jonny, is that you?" a female voice broke my train of thought, but it was the nickname that held my attention captive. No one openly called my dad Jonny, not even my grandparents. No one.

"Giselle?" my father asked, surprised.

On the other side of the hallway, Tessa stood opposite me between her parents,  who were still holding brochures in their hands. Tied sleeves of a gray cardigan covered her shoulders. As usual, her hair was straightened and pulled back into a sleek ponytail that rested on the top of her head. With blonde hair that framed her ovular face perfectly, Tessa's mom looked almost identical to her. Their heights were even similar, their bodies meant to be walking down runways.

Jason O'Connell, however, was a different story. With deep but hollow blue-green eyes that sunk into their sockets, he looked like a nightmare. From the gloomy expression he wore on his face, it looked like he'd been dragged out of bed by his wife before three o'clock in the afternoon.

Tessa's father always walked around wearing one of his baseball jersey, a reminder of the old days -- the days he couldn't quite get over no matter how hard he tried. The untrimmed beard growing on his face was all the evidence needed. I could smell the alcohol in the man's breath from where I was standing when Tessa's mom greeted my dad with a hug that lasted a couple seconds too long for comfort.

"How have you been, Jonathan?" Mrs. O'Connell asked, retreating back to her husband's side. "I feel like it's been ages since we last saw you and Kennedy."

It had been a little more than over three years.

"Things have stayed the same more or less," my dad said, shrugging. "Not everyone is launching a fashion line at the moment."

"You heard about that? We'll just have to see where it goes in the next couple of months."

Tessa rolled her eyes and scratched her forehead as her mom laughed. Tessa's body language indicated annoyance, that she knew something I didn't. We briefly made eye contact, which ended in Tessa looking for the nearest exit immediately. It was incredibly hard to imagine that we were ever friends.

"And what have you been up to lately, Kennedy?" Mrs. O'Connell turned toward me, her blue eyes locking with mine. "You've grown since the last time you were over at our house!"

"Just school," I replied with as few words as possible. "I can't believe it's senior year already."

"I think that means we need to spend some time catching up, don't we? Why don't you two come over for dinner sometime this weekend? I'm sure Patrice can whip something up and-"

"Mom, Kennedy and I are both really busy with college applications this week," Tessa thankfully cut her mom short before she could elaborate on her dinner plans. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

"Juilliard holds auditions instead of having students send in applications though, right?" This question was left in the open, but it was directed toward me. I, however, wasn't the first person to answer.

"Kennedy isn't applying to Juilliard, Mom," Tessa informed her mom in a strained tone, the glower of her piercing blue eyes enough to put forth a silence between all five of us. Tessa O'Connell always knew how to command a room. "She doesn't play the piano anymore."

Mrs. O'Connell nodded and quickly changed the subject back, sparing me from any further embarrassment. After all these years, I was surprised that Tessa knew about Juilliard. "When would you all be available to come over for dinner? What is a good time for everyone?"

Mr. O'Connell simply shrugged and left all the decision making up to his wife. He wasn't in the right state of mind, anyway. Tessa released a soft sigh as she buried her face in her hands. Her mom's lack of social awareness was infuriating her, driving her, quite literally, to the edge of sanity.

"I'll be out of town for the next two weeks for a project overseas," my dad answered when no one else would, while I seriously considered telling Mrs. O'Connell that I was busy for the rest of my life. There was nothing I wanted more than to avoid Tessa, but that was going to be impossible if I was in her home.

"How does Thanksgiving sound then?" Tessa's mom was relentless. She gestured toward her daughter first, then me. "It's perfect! You two will have finished your early applications and will be on break."

I tugged on my dad's shirtsleeve and motioned for the nearest exit with my head, but he didn't seem to notice considering he said, "We'll see you there."

Even though I was smiling on the outside, I was internally screaming. Thanksgiving was less than a month away, but even that didn't seem like enough time to prepare myself for the O'Connells, or, more specifically the wrath of Tessa.