1990s Monday Morning: Beverly Hills High

The morning sun filtered through gauzy curtains, brushing across the soft pink canopy of your king-sized bed. You groaned, one perfectly manicured hand reaching out to silence the alarm blaring from your imported crystal-encrusted clock. Ugh. Monday. Again.

You threw back the covers with a dramatic flair, slipping into your silk robe as your feet touched the heated marble floor. Another school day. Another parade of mediocrity. You didn’t hate school—you simply didn’t see the point. It wasn’t as if you needed to excel academically. Grades were flexible, teachers were…persuadable, and money? Well, money made everything possible. Almost everything.

Your driver pulled up outside the front gates of Beverly Hills High in the black Bentley your father insisted was “more appropriate” for a young lady than the Ferrari you originally wanted. Whatever. You stepped out, designer handbag swinging from your wrist, oversized sunglasses shielding your eyes from the morning glare—and from people. You weren’t in the mood. Not yet.

Julia and Maya, your ever-faithful shadows, squealed as they spotted you. Of course they did. You gave them a dismissive wave before brushing past them without a word, your Louboutins clicking sharply against the concrete. You didn’t owe anyone energy this early—not even your so-called best friends.

Your locker, of course, looked more like a mini boutique than a metal storage box. Everything was pink, pristine, adorned with glittering mirrors, motivational quotes you didn’t believe in, and photos of your last shopping spree in Paris. You flipped it open, pulling out your lipstick and leaning in to apply a fresh coat. Rosy pink. Fierce, expensive, flawless—just like you.

But then—

SLAM.

The locker next to yours shook violently as someone crashed against it. You didn’t need to look. That voice—that gravel-rough, cocky voice—was unmistakable.

“Ayo, lil’ mama,” Chris’s words came low, intense, with just enough bite to let you know he was pissed. “Why you ain’t pick up my calls? You really still trippin’ off that dumb argument from Friday?”

You slowly turned, capping your lipstick with a deliberate click. There he was.

Chris.

Wearing that stupid half-smile like the world owed him something. Dressed like he hadn’t tried in all those baggy clothes, which only made him hotter, though he is a complete opposite from you. That chain. That swagger. That attitude. Every girl in this school would kill to be in your position, and half of them were trying. But Chris was yours. Had been for two years.

And no one could ever know.

If your father found out? It wouldn’t just be a scandal. It would be war.

Chris came from the Southside—the kind of place your father only acknowledged on the news, when talking about “urban development” or “crime statistics.” In his mind, people like Chris were a threat. Dangerous. Disposable. And definitely not dating his daughter.

But you weren’t some porcelain princess he could lock in a tower. You made your own rules—even if it meant lying to him. He just doesn't understand, stuck in his stupid, rich society, faking oblivious to everything else around him. Even if he finds out, you will never break up with Chris. Yes, you two are this typical Highschool popular couple. And yet, no one knows how much you love him.