The Ace of Spades

Ariana Ross

“Is that a stain, or did the moths just have expensive taste?”

The voice cuts through the low murmur of the courtyard. It is smooth like honey, but with a shard of glass hidden inside. I stop walking. My secondhand leather shoes, polished to a desperate shine this morning, feel suddenly tight.

I turn slowly. Three girls stand near the grand stone archway that leads to the main hall. They are a portrait of effortless wealth. Their navy blazers are perfectly tailored, the golden Blackwood Academy crest gleaming on the pockets. Their hair falls in waves that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

The one in the middle, the one who spoke, is breathtaking. Dark hair, olive skin, eyes the color of dark chocolate that are currently dissecting the sleeve of my blazer.

“I’m sorry?” I ask. My voice is steady. It is the one thing I can always control.

She takes a step closer, her friends flanking her like designer wolves. The scent of expensive perfume, something with vanilla and maybe sandalwood, rolls off her.

“I asked about your jacket,” she says, her lips curling into a smile that does not reach her eyes. “It’s a simple question. We value clarity here at Blackwood.”

Her name is Isabella Rossi. I know from the orientation packet. Her family’s name is on half the buildings here. A legacy. I am a scholarship case. We are different species.

I glance down at my blazer sleeve. There is a tiny, faded spot near the cuff, barely noticeable. The result of a frantic five dollar dry cleaning ticket and a prayer. It is the best I could afford.

“It’s vintage,” I say, meeting her gaze. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. But my face is calm. My hands, tucked into my pockets, are still.

One of her friends lets out a high pitched giggle. “Vintage? That’s what we’re calling it now?”

Isabella holds up a hand, silencing her without looking. Her focus is entirely on me. It is intense, predatory. She is sizing me up, looking for the weak spot.

“Let me see,” she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She reaches out, her perfectly manicured fingers heading for my sleeve.

I take a half step back. A small, almost imperceptible movement. “No, thank you.”

Her hand freezes in the air. The smile on her face tightens. “Excuse me?”

“I’m fine,” I repeat, keeping my voice level. “I need to find the registrar’s office.”

“The registrar is that way,” she says, waving a dismissive hand. “But we’re not done here. What’s your name, charity case?”

“Ariana Ross.”

“Ariana,” she tests the name on her tongue. “Well, Ariana Ross. At Blackwood, appearances matter. That crest on your pocket means something. It means you represent us. And ‘vintage’,” she says the word like it is something foul, “does not represent us.”

She turns to her friends, a silent communication passing between them. The two of them move, positioning themselves slightly to my left and right. Not quite blocking me, but making it clear that leaving is not an option. A classic pincer movement. Simple, but effective.

“It’s just a uniform,” I say.

Isabella laughs, a genuine, throaty sound this time. It is a beautiful sound, and it makes the skin on my arms prickle with cold. “Oh, sweetie. You have so much to learn. Nothing here is ‘just’ anything. Every thread, every word, every friendship is a transaction. A calculation. You, for instance. Your presence here subtracts value from our brand.”

Her eyes flick down to my shoes, then back to my face. A slow, deliberate insult. I feel the stares of other students passing by. They slow down, pretending to check their phones, but they are watching the show. Isabella Rossi, the queen, holding court.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say. My jaw aches from clenching it.

“You do that.” She finally steps back, the invisible pressure releasing. “Get a new blazer. Or find a new school. Someplace where vintage is appreciated.”

She turns, her long hair swinging like a curtain, and walks away. Her friends follow a step behind, casting smug glances over their shoulders. The courtyard goes back to its normal hum, but now I am the center of a silent, judgmental circle. I can feel their pity and their disdain. I am marked.

I force my feet to move. One foot in front of the other, through the archway, into the cavernous main hall. I do not look at anyone. I focus on the polished marble floors, the portraits of stern faced old men on the walls, the scent of old books and floor wax. I find a deserted corridor and lean against the cool stone wall, finally letting out a breath I did not realize I was holding. My hands are shaking.

This is what he warned me about. Not my stepfather, Rick. He would not have cared. My mother. In a rare moment of clarity, she had held my hands the night before I left. ‘They will try to break you, Ariana,’ she had whispered, her eyes watery. ‘Don’t let them see you bleed.’

I push off the wall. Bleeding is not an option.

As I start walking again, looking for any sign that points to the registrar, I hear two boys talking in a recessed doorway ahead. Their voices are low, urgent.

“He’s not going to like it. You know how Carter is about loose ends.”

“It wasn’t my fault. The package was intercepted.”

“Tell that to The Syndicate. They don’t accept excuses.”

The name hangs in the air. The Syndicate. It sounds less like a school club and more like a threat. The boys fall silent as I approach, their eyes wide with a flicker of fear before they compose themselves and hurry away in the opposite direction.

Carter. The Syndicate. The names echo in my head. Power. That is what Isabella had. The power to humiliate me with a word. The power that made those boys speak in hushed, frightened tones. That is the real currency here, not money. Money is just a tool to get it.

The scratchy wool of this blazer feels familiar. It feels just like the worn felt of that table in the back of a smoky bar, the air thick with cheap whiskey and desperation.

The memory hits me without warning.

I am ten years old. My legs barely reach the floor. I am sitting at a round poker table, the cards in my small hands feeling enormous. Across from me sits Rick, my stepfather. His eyes are narrowed, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Again,” he says, his voice a low growl.

I look at the man to his left. His name is Jimmy. He sweats a lot, even though it is cool in the room. He has a pair of aces. I know he does. His tell is a slight flare of his nostrils right after he looks at his hand.

“He has two aces,” I say quietly.

Rick does not look at Jimmy. He looks at me. “How do you know?”

“His nose.”

“Not good enough. What else?”

I look closer. At the way Jimmy is stacking his chips, a little too neatly. The way he avoids looking at the pot, trying to appear nonchalant. He is trying too hard.

“He’s faking,” I say. “He wants you to think he’s weak, so you’ll bet more.”

Rick grunts. He tosses his cards into the center of the table, face up. A worthless hand. “Fold.”

Jimmy sighs, a mix of relief and disappointment. He shows his aces. “Lucky guess, kid.”

“There is no luck,” Rick snarls, grabbing my arm. His grip is tight, his fingers digging into my skin. “Luck is for idiots and saints. We are neither. You do not guess, Ariana. You know. You watch. Every twitch. Every breath. Every time they blink. People are books written in a language no one else bothers to read. You will become fluent. Understand?”

He is not teaching me a game. This is not a hobby. This is my education. My mother is in the other room, the television turned up loud to drown out the sound. She thinks this is just Rick’s way of bonding. I know better. He is forging a tool. He is sharpening a weapon. And I am it.

He pulls me to another table, a different man. This one is named Sal. Sal is a rock. He shows nothing.

“Read him,” Rick orders.

I watch Sal for ten minutes. He does not twitch. He does not sweat. His breathing is even. I watch his hands, his eyes, the muscles in his jaw. Nothing.

“I can’t,” I whisper. My throat is dry.

Rick’s hand connects with the back of my head. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough that my teeth click together. “Wrong answer. Everyone has a tell. Find it. Or we stay here all night.”

I stare at Sal, my eyes burning. I watch him play a hand. He wins. He plays another. He loses. There is no change in his expression. No tells. But then I see it. It is not something he does. It is something he does not do.

When he has a good hand, a winning hand, his blink rate is normal. But when he is bluffing, when his hand is garbage, his blink rate slows down. By maybe a fraction of a second. He is consciously trying to control his body, to remain still, and he is overcorrecting. He is trying so hard to be a rock that he stops the little, involuntary movements we all make.

“He stops blinking,” I say, my voice shaking slightly.

Rick stares at me. A slow smile spreads across his face. It is a cold, terrifying thing. “Good girl.”

That was the first time he ever praised me. It felt like poison.

He spent years on my education. He would bring home videos of political debates, of corporate negotiations, of criminal interrogations, all with the sound off. “What is he lying about?” he would demand. “Where is her weakness? Who has the power in this room?”

I learned to see the slight tightening around a person’s eyes that signaled fear. The subtle press of lips that meant concealed anger. The microscopic head shake that negated a confident ‘yes’. I learned to read the hidden language of the human body. I became fluent.

I shake my head, the memory fading, leaving the bitter taste of stale cigarette smoke in my mouth. I am back in the hallway of Blackwood Academy. The portraits of the dead men stare down at me.

Isabella Rossi. When she told me my presence subtracted value, her right eyebrow lifted by less than a millimeter. A flash of genuine contempt. But when she told me to get a new school, she glanced at her friends for a fraction of a second. She was not just talking to me. She was performing for them. Her power is dependent on her audience. That is her weakness. That is her tell.

I finally find the registrar’s office. It takes ten minutes to get my schedule and my dorm key. Room 312. I make my way up the winding staircases, my footsteps echoing in the silence. The dorm room is small, spartan. A bed, a desk, a closet, and a window that looks out over the perfectly manicured lawns.

It is more space than I have ever had to myself. It feels like a palace and a prison all at once.

I drop my single, scuffed suitcase on the floor and walk to the window. Down below, I can see Isabella and her friends, laughing as they get into a sleek, black car that probably costs more than the house I grew up in. They drive away, leaving me here in this ivory tower.

She thinks she has won. She thinks she has put me in my place. The poor little scholarship girl with the secondhand blazer. She is wrong.

She and Rick are not so different. They both see people as pieces on a board. They both understand that the world is run by those who are willing to do what others are not.

Blackwood is not a school. It is a poker table with higher stakes. And everyone here has a tell. I just have to watch closely enough to see it. I look down at the faded spot on my blazer. It is not a mark of shame. It is a reminder. A reminder of where I came from, and a reminder that I have survived far worse than a rich girl’s insults.

Isabella may be the queen of this place, but queens can be toppled. I did not come here to make friends. I did not come here to fit in. I came here to escape, to build a new life, to win. And I know something Isabella does not.

This is not her game. It is mine. And I always know when my opponent is bluffing.