Bad Winners (Lochkelvin Academy Book 4) by Evie Kady

Author:Evie Kady [Kady, Evie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-06-28T18:30:00+00:00

It turns out that the seventh circle of hell is the St. Camford student union. Everyone I pass, someone has an uninformed opinion that they need to share loudly and proudly.

The hall is decorated sumptuously, with chandeliers dripping with crystals and thick velvet drapes. Gilt balloons larger than I’ve ever seen gently rotate on the spot, spelling out the message, WELCOME TO ST. CAMFORD, and effortlessly suited guys attempt to woo girls in elaborate cocktail dresses, blonde flutes of champagne bubbling between them.

It’s a lot different from how I’d expect college bars back home, with pool tables and guys in varsity jackets drinking from plastic red cups and watching major league baseball on a myriad of screens. There are no screens here, but there are a dozen or so ice sculptures dotted around, catching the twinkling crystal lights of the chandeliers.

A girl beside me shimmies her body low, drinking tequila shots from the beak of a carved iced swan.

Danny shoots me an exasperated look, clutching his glass of vodka and Irn-Bru. I made mine a double, having the feeling that I wouldn’t be able to get through the night without being thoroughly lubricated.

“Actually, I think you’ll find that neo-liberal propaganda is merely being used to supplant late-stage capitalism,” someone loudly declares nearby, and it’s like being at Lochkelvin on speed. “If you opened your mind a little wider, you’d also find that the globalist oligarchs are deliberately trying to intervene and suppress Harry Wells’ latest manifesto.”

“I hate to burst your bubble but technocratic liberal fascists aren’t the ones conspiring against our free speech. Try educating yourself instead of believing the six o’clock news, dipshit.”

“We need the decolonization of elite-adjacent inter-radical hegemonic narratives now, and to end outmoded and oppressive thought-views.”

I down my drink, wishing the ground could save me by swallowing me whole. The entire place is full of these types of people, talking political jargon, each word laden with a boastful, semi-sneering act of superiority. Oh, how much I know, they seem to say, leaving my ears ringing and my head sore.

“I don’t think I can stick this,” I tell Danny bluntly, observing all the pompous conversations happening around us. “I’m already getting a headache, and trust me, it’s not from the vodka.”

A smile flickers across Danny’s mouth. “Well,” he says in a conspiratorial tone, “you know there’s a cinema on the outskirts of St. Camford? Guess what they’re showing tonight.”

“What?”

“Grease!”

I scrunch my face. “Why is the universe determined to make me watch Grease?”

“Because it’s the one that you want?”

I give him a baleful stare.

“Or not.”

I had enough of Grease when Arabella and Li insisted on calling me Sandy for the better part of last semester. I really don’t need to examine the source material as to how they got their inspiration.

Speaking of Arabella, I watch as she chats animatedly to a group of girls I don’t recognize. Her dress is a flared little orange number with an extravagantly ruffled skirt, as if the cuter she dresses, the less likely she is to come across as the Rottweiler she actually is.

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