We were thirty minutes into the ride when Father cleared his throat for the third time and said,
"You're awfully quiet, Peter."
I considered saying something polite, perhaps reassuring, like "Just mentally preparing for the next chapter of my life, Father."
But the truth was, I was thinking about how Edward Stokely's face looked when I beat him in every subject for the third term in a row.
A glorious, twitching grimace of defeat. Almost artistic.
"I'm fine," I said instead.
"It's Greenville, darling!" Mother chimed from the front. "A fresh start! Imagine it. New friends, a healthier atmosphere, and no more of those nasty… what did you call them? Pranksters?"
I had called them cockroaches in uniforms, but sure, pranksters worked too.
What my parents didn't know—and must never know—was that while I was frequently the target of such lowbrow idiocy, I was also something of a quiet, academic reaper.
A weekly humiliation in the cafeteria? Sure.
A locker stuffed with whipped cream? Fine.
But when exam results came out and I, the "boring rich kid," placed first across the board, there was no whipped cream strong enough to wash away their shame.
They never suspected it was deliberate.
And my parents, God bless their gentle optimism, assumed I spent my school life as a quiet, passive genius.
"Peter, be sure to smile when we arrive," Mother added. "First impressions matter."
I nodded. Smiling was easy. I'd been doing it every time I crushed a petty idiot's academic dreams for three years straight.
The only difference now was, I was headed somewhere new. Somewhere worse, probably.
Greenville.
What kind of school name was that, anyway?
Sounded like a place where the grass would bully you too
That's by the way though, because after a while, we finally arrived at the so called 'Greenville'
The gates of Greenville Academy creaked open like something out of a Jane Austen fever dream.
Ivy-covered stone walls, pristine walkways, fountains that actually functioned—and not a single gum wrapper in sight.
Mother gasped.
"Oh, it's lovely!"
Father gave an approving grunt. "Very proper. Very refined."
I stared blankly out the window.
It was fine.
Then again, when you've spent three years being groomed in the top-ranked prep school in all of England, beauty becomes less of a marvel and more of a checklist.
Symmetrical courtyards? Check.
Wrought iron gates? Yawn.
Smell of freshly cut grass and moral superiority? Present.
A man in a tailored brown suit approached the car with an entourage of similarly overdressed teachers. He had the walk of someone who ironed his own socks.
"Mr. and Mrs. Harold! Welcome to Greenville!" he greeted, bowing ever so slightly. "I'm Principal Woodgate. And you must be Peter."
I stepped out, nodded, and shook his hand.
It was warm, firm, and disturbingly moisturized.
"We're thrilled to have you," he continued. "Greenville is proud to offer a nurturing environment where excellence meets character."
I resisted the urge to blink twice at the phrase "nurturing environment."
Behind him stood a row of teachers, each more polite-looking than the last. I wasn't sure if they were educators or part of a ceremonial greeting squad.
"This is Mr. Kingsley—English literature," Principal Woodgate said.
Mr. Kingsley bowed. "We read with our souls."
"This is Ms. Fern—History."
Ms. Fern waved with a binder clutched like it contained state secrets.
"And of course, Coach Renwick—Physical Education."
Coach Renwick nodded once. His arms were the size of my thighs. I made a mental note to avoid eye contact.
"Come, come," Principal Woodgate said with a cheerful clap. "Let's take a quick tour before orientation begins."
My parents beamed. I walked quietly beside them, hands in pockets, glancing around at the school's attempt at architectural grandeur.
Corinthian pillars? Cute.
"Oh Peter," Mother whispered as we walked, "this is such an upgrade from St. Bracknell's, don't you think?"
I didn't answer.
St. Bracknell's may have been a social torture chamber, but its campus was practically a UNESCO heritage site.
Greenville looked like it tried very hard to impress royalty that was never coming.
Still… the floors were clean, the air smelled like lemon and discipline, and no one had threatened to shove me into a trash bin yet.
So, points for that.
---
The tour began with a courtyard so symmetrical I suspected a secret team of rulers and spirit levels.
Neatly trimmed hedges, benches lined like soldiers, and a trio of students playing an actual cello trio under a tree—because apparently this school runs on brochures and soft classical music.
"Magnificent," Father whispered.
"Like something from Town & Country," Mother added, teary-eyed for no apparent reason.
I said nothing, but internally, I was… intrigued.
We passed classrooms with spotless whiteboards, libraries that smelled of polished wood and smug intellect, and even a science lab where one student gently swirled a beaker like he was handling royal perfume.
Everyone wore crisp uniforms. The prefects walked in formation. The teachers smiled without dead eyes.
No one yelled. No one ran. No one hung upside-down from railings.
Suspicious.
"And here's the Grand Hall," Principal Woodgate announced, gesturing proudly as two students opened the towering double doors like royal attendants.
Inside was a cathedral-like space with banners, chandeliers, and a gleaming stage.
"We host all our assemblies here," he explained, "as well as our debates, concerts, and the annual Brain Gala."
"Brain Gala?" I asked.
"A celebration of academic excellence," he said.
…Okay, that earned a point. Maybe two.
We passed the art rooms (surprisingly avant-garde), the indoor swimming pool (heated, of course), and a meditation garden with koi fish fatter than my self-worth.
I caught myself slowing down. Actually looking.
Was Greenville… functional?
Were these students… sane?
I hadn't even seen anyone throw a dodgeball at a teacher's head yet.
"Darling," Mother said softly as we neared the front steps again, "what do you think so far?"
I shrugged, which, in my language, meant I'm beginning to mildly approve.
Father folded his arms. "It's a far cry from St. Bracknell's. No graffiti in the bathroom mirrors. No exploding lockers. I say it's worth considering."
"I agree," Mother nodded, then turned to Principal Woodgate with a smile. "We'll stay for the orientation, of course. But if all goes well…"
"Then we'd be honoured to enroll Peter here," Father finished.
I stared ahead at the flawless fountain that sparkled like it was sponsored by bottled water companies.
For the first time in years…
I felt a dangerous thing stir in my chest.
Hope.