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"Eliza," Jamie said, "meet Oliver."
The Dining Hall was bustling with students, all wearing matching maroon uniforms and unenthusiastic expressions on their faces. My roommate had dragged me to a table in the far left corner of the space, where a boy sat flipping through a book.
He had curly, dark-brown hair, which hung messily above his eyelids. The boy looked up when we approached, and I got a good look at his facial features he flaunted. He looked different from any boy I'd ever seen, almost as if he was a painting that had come to life. His eyelashes batted quickly, blurring over his olive eyes; which ironically matched his name.
"I've heard of you," he said, snapping his book shut, "the transfer student?"
I turned to look at Jamie in confusion, but she laughed and slid into the bench across from the boy.
"Word spreads around here quickly," she said, "you get used to it."
"Then again," Oliver added, "you'll get used to everything here."
"What do you mean?" I asked, leaning forward.
"Cliques," Jamie laughed, "once you find your place, you'll know it."
I was familiar with stereotypical grouping, but I doubted there would be one for thieves. However, this was the perfect opportunity to find out everything about everyone here at the school. The more I knew, the easier it would be to get this job done.
"I don't suppose you could point them out to me?" I asked, intrigued.
"Well for starters," Jamie said, "those are the Rugby players."
She made a subtle nod towards the table a few feet away from us. I would have been able to make that assumption on my own, considering the group was full of teenage boys with matching jackets. Every few seconds, they all simultaneously broke out in a unified cheer, laughing at whatever had been said.
"They seem nice," I said plainly, not invested in what was going on over there.
"Some of them are," Oliver scoffed, rolling his eyes, "but honestly, I don't think you need us to tell you about the students."
"Why not?" I questioned.
"Listen, there's only five things you should care about here. First, there's us."
He gestured between him and Jamie, who returned a nod in agreement.
"Stick to one friend group, no one cares about how popular you are here," he continued, "second, the teachers."
He pointed a quick finger over to the other side of the hall, where a long line of teachers were sitting. They were all engaged in conversations, paying no attention to the chaotic environment the students were creating.
"Get on thier good side," Jamie cut in, "If they like you, you'll pass the class."
"Isn't that favoritism?"
"Not here," she said, shaking her head, "no one really cares if you pass by whatever's in your brain. Most of the kids here have enough money to skip college, anyways."
"Third, is the matron," Oliver said, "she's a demon from hell. If you break the rules, you'll probably be skinned alive."
"That sounds disgusting," I shrugged, wrinkling my nose.
"He's overreacting," Jamie laughed, "just don't get caught sneaking around after dark."
"I'd know," the boy frowned, shaking his head, "fourth, is the Headmaster. He likes things to go the traditional way, so don't even think about rebelling. He's a few sandwiches short of a picnic, if you ask me."
"Oliver!" Jamie scolded, swatting him with her hand, "just because he suspended you freshman year, doesn't mean he's an idiot."
"You got suspended?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.
"Don't ask," the boy said, "just steer clear of the man."
"And his son," she sighed, "he's the fifth person."
"His son?"
"Yeah," Jamie said, nodding towards the teachers table, "Tom."
I turned around in my seat to scan the room. Among the group of professors, a boy was seated next to the man in the center, who I presumed to be the headmaster. He was too far away to get a clear look, but by the way he held himself, he seemed pretentious. Perfect posture, a crisp uniform, and slicked back hair.
"Tom Holland," Oliver mumbled through gritted teeth, "everyone's favorite boy."
"I'm sorry?" I said, spinning back around, "what are you talking about?"
"Everyone loves him," he explained, "sorry, let me correct myself, everyone but me, loves him."
"Why?"
"He's the golden boy," Jamie sighed, "or going off of your Harry Potter terminology, the chosen one."
"He doesn't look that special."
"Watch what you say about him," she said, "every girl he's ever given attention to will hunt you down and tear you apart."
"Moths to a flame, Eliza," Oliver said, "moths to a flame."