Chapter 3: Rebels, Outcasts, and New Rules

The next morning, the younger daughter and I were sent to the academy.

The car that picked us up was black and shiny, windows tinted so dark I couldn’t see the city rush by. Natalie cracked jokes to settle my nerves, but even she sat up straighter as we passed through the academy gates, the place sprawling and stately with its ivy-covered walls and manicured lawns. It looked like the kind of school you see in glossy brochures or political campaign ads.

In this strange place, our future classmates stared at us with curiosity. The kids up front wore designer clothes and had that air of entitlement—obviously D.C. royalty.

The girls had perfect ponytails, and the boys wore polo shirts with tiny alligators on the chest. Some glanced up from their iPads long enough to smirk. I felt my thrift-store jeans shrink under their gaze. Natalie rolled her eyes but squared her shoulders like she owned the place.

I was a little nervous, sitting close to the younger daughter.

I could feel my hands sweating on my backpack. Natalie nudged me, her way of saying, “Chin up.” The room was too bright, the air thick with expensive perfume and new money.

The teacher started his lecture. The younger daughter noticed my nerves, leaned over, tugged my sleeve, and whispered,

“Relax, the teacher’s not gonna bite.”

Natalie’s breath tickled my ear, her drawl comforting. I was about to whisper back, grateful, but that’s when trouble hit.

Before I could answer, the teacher’s eyes narrowed in annoyance, and he snapped,

“What are those two whispering about back there?”

His voice cut through the classroom like a chalk squeal. The room went silent. Every head swiveled toward us, and I nearly bit my tongue in panic.

We both jumped and scrambled to sit up straight.

My heart jackhammered in my chest. I stared at the floor, praying the linoleum would swallow me whole. Natalie shot me a look—half apology, half mischief—while I slid down in my chair, wishing I could disappear.

At dinner, the First Lady asked about our classes.

The dining room was formal: crystal glasses, heavy silverware, and a floral centerpiece that blocked half my view. The First Lady sat at the head, eyeing us over her glasses. It was my first real meal in D.C. and I had no clue which fork to use.

I scratched my head, thinking of the younger daughter’s chicken-scratch handwriting, and felt a little guilty.

I remembered all the times I’d copied her homework back in Savannah, and wondered if that would fly in D.C. Natalie looked at me like, “Don’t you dare throw me under the bus.”

She shot me a glare, then replied, bold but not too confident: “Ma’am, back in Savannah, we always kept up with our schoolwork.”

Her voice was steady, but I could tell she was nervous too. The First Lady’s eyebrows rose, then settled, just a little.

The First Lady nodded, looking a bit relieved that we weren’t as wild as the rumors, and finally relaxed.

Her shoulders eased, and she picked up her napkin, folding it with practiced fingers. For the first time, I saw a hint of softness in her eyes—a flicker of hope.

But she barely had time to breathe easy.

Because with us around, quiet never lasted long. Trouble had a way of finding us faster than rain in July.

On our third day at the academy, the younger daughter and I got into a fight with a senator’s son.

It started in the hallway—a comment about “country girls” that Natalie wasn’t about to let slide. One shove led to another, and suddenly fists were flying. My heart hammered as teachers shouted and kids circled, phones out and recording.

The teacher’s face turned beet red with anger, and he immediately sent someone to report to the First Lady.

I saw my future flash before my eyes: grounded for life, sent home in disgrace, maybe even making headlines as the “Georgia Girls Gone Wild.”

The senator’s son was bruised and bloody-nosed, bawling: “Natalie Young, Aubrey Young, I’ll get you both for this!”

His sobs echoed off the hallway lockers. I glanced at Natalie, whose cheek was already swelling, but she held her head high. My own knuckles stung, and a trickle of guilt mixed with pride.

The Vice President’s son limped over and covered his mouth.

He was taller, older, and clearly trying not to laugh. His khakis had grass stains, and he shot us a thumbs up behind the teacher’s back, as if to say, "Nice one."

The ambassador’s daughter, hair a tangled mess, sat on the floor wincing as she tried to comb it: “Give it a rest, will you? They should’ve knocked your teeth out too.”

Her French braid was more like a bird’s nest now, but she glared at the senator’s son like he was yesterday’s trash. Her accent rolled over her words, a reminder that D.C. was a melting pot of old money, politics, and drama.

The First Lady stared at her three grandkids for a long moment, then finally burst out laughing in exasperation.

She tried to keep a straight face but failed. Her laugh was the kind that starts with disbelief and ends with acceptance. I realized she’d probably seen worse.

She turned to us, kneeling on the carpet: “Look up and tell me—why’d you hit him?”

The carpet was plush under my knees. I dared a glance at Natalie, who was already squaring her shoulders, ready to own up.

Natalie, the younger daughter, touched her own bruised cheek and spoke up before the senator’s son could complain.

She sounded braver than I felt. "Ma’am, he’s got perfect handwriting and called Aubrey and me country hicks."

The senator’s son glared, about to protest, but Natalie shot me a look.

It was our old Savannah code: play it up, milk it for sympathy. I nodded, understanding.

I caught on, covered my face, and hugged Natalie, sobbing right along with her.

My tears were half real, half theater, and all Southern drama. I clung to Natalie and snuffled loudly, hoping it would win us a bit of mercy.

The First Lady was at a loss for words, finally noticing our wrinkled clothes.

She seemed to see us for the first time—not as wild kids, but as two homesick girls who missed the warmth of home. The fight wasn’t just about pride; it was about fitting in, about not letting anyone walk over us.

She turned to the senator’s son with a frown and said sternly, “Ben, these girls are younger than you. Not only did you mouth off, you also grabbed at them—what kind of behavior is that?”

Her tone was fierce—a mom’s scold, sharp enough to make Ben wilt. He shrank, rubbing at his bloody nose, and looked like he wished he could vanish.

He couldn’t defend himself, but looking around, he was clearly the most banged up, crying so hard he almost passed out.

Natalie elbowed me, whispering, "Don’t gloat." Still, I saw a little satisfaction flicker in her eyes. Sometimes, justice hurts.

The First Lady looked over at the Vice President’s son and the ambassador’s daughter, puzzled.

Her eyebrow arched. "And you two?" she asked, like a detective sorting out a case of missing cookies.

“Ben fought with the girls, but what about the other two?”

The Vice President’s son, now fifteen and the oldest, looked embarrassed and managed a crooked smile.

He scratched the back of his neck, shrugged, and tried to melt into the wallpaper. For a guy used to speeches and debate, he looked downright sheepish.

The ambassador’s daughter was less shy, holding a clump of tangled hair and glaring at me.

“Grandma, you see, my brother and I tried to break it up, but some people lose it when they’re fighting and even hit us too.”

Her voice was theatrical, and she flipped her hair as if daring anyone to contradict her. I ducked my head, cheeks burning.

I coughed and buried my head even deeper.

Sorry, I lost it.

I wanted to apologize, but words stuck in my throat. I just hoped she’d forgive me—maybe someday.