Page 4 of The Drama King

Iwokeearly,mybody still on my hometown schedule where dawn meant helping Dad prepare for his morning shift before school. In the dim gray light, I studied the other half of the room where my roommate slept, her bright blue hair splayed across pristine white bedding.

Stephanie Shaw had been a welcome surprise. Not only friendly, but forthcoming about the social dynamics I'd need to navigate.

The housing office always paired Omegas with Beta roommates to avoid territorial disputes, but I still recognized how I'd been fortunate to get someone as understanding as Stephanie.

I slipped from bed silently and gathered my toiletries and uniform.

The shared bathroom at the end of the hall was mercifully empty this early. I took my time in the shower, mentallypreparing for my first official day. The orientation packet indicated all scholarship students had a mandatory meeting about "academic expectations," and “a mandatory wellness workshop”, followed by department introductions. Regular classes wouldn't begin until tomorrow.

Steam filled the small space. I practiced my breathing exercises, drawing deep into my diaphragm the way my voice coach had taught me."Command your space," she'd always said. "Even when you're terrified, especially when you're terrified. Your body betrays your fear before your voice ever does."

I squared my shoulders, watching my reflection emerge from the fogged mirror as I wiped it clear. My dirty blonde hair hung in damp waves to my shoulders, and I quickly braided it back in a simple style that would pass inspection. The uniform skirt was shorter than I'd have chosen, hitting mid-thigh in a way that made me self-conscious. The blazer, at least, fit well enough, though the crest emblazoned on the breast pocket, a stylized N intertwined with laurel leaves, felt like a brand marking me as property.

By the time I returned to our room, Stephanie was awake, scrolling through her phone with one hand while blindly reaching for a mug of what smelled like extremely strong coffee with the other.

"Morning," she mumbled, voice still thick with sleep. "You're up early."

"Old habits," I replied, carefully hanging my towel to dry. "Did I wake you?"

"Nah. Anxiety." She sat up, her sleep shirt sliding off one shoulder to reveal a colorful tattoo of cherry blossoms winding around her collarbone. "I always get insomnia before anything important."

"You've been here a year already, though," I said, curious. "Isn't this routine by now?"

Stephanie snorted, taking a long drink of coffee. "Nothing about Northwood is routine. Every semester is like entering a new political battlefield. Especially in the theater department. The power dynamics shift depending on who's directing what, which professor is sleeping with which student—don't act shocked, it happens—and which pack is asserting dominance."

"Packs, plural?" I asked, my stomach tightening. "There's more than one?"

"Not in theater, fortunately for us. But in the broader school, yeah. Business majors have their own little oligarchy, the pre-law students think they run everything, and don't get me started on the lacrosse team." She shrugged. "But in the theater, it's Dorian's group.The unholy trinity."

I finished buttoning my shirt and sat at my desk to apply minimal makeup. The mirror reflected back a girl who appeared younger than her eighteen years, all wide eyes and nervous energy. "Have they always been... like that? Targeting scholarship students?"

Stephanie's expression darkened as she finally got out of bed, padding to her closet in bare feet. "Apparently. But, it's gotten worse since their first year. My older sister went to Yale, and she warned me about entitled rich boys and their power games, but even she was shocked when I told her about Dorian."

"Your sister sounds smart," I said.

"She is. Pre-law, naturally argumentative, takes no shit from anyone." Stephanie began getting dressed. "She actually researched the Ashworth family when I told her what was happening here. Turns out they don't donate to schools—they basically own them. The new theater wing going up? That's Ashworth money. The performance center where we hold showcases? Named after Dorian's grandfather."

"So the administration protects him," I concluded, my heart sinking.

"Worse than that. They actively enable him." She pulled her blue hair into a messy bun that somehow appeared intentionally artistic.

Her honesty was refreshing, but it also highlighted the vast gap between our situations. While I was here on full scholarship, counting every dining hall shift to afford basic necessities, she was exploring her artistic passion with a financial safety net most people could only dream of.

"Yeah. And it looks like they’ve set their sights on me." I stood, gathering my messenger bag and checking that I had everything I needed. "No pressure or anything."

"Hey." Stephanie's voice was gentle but firm. "You earned this. The admissions committee doesn't hand out full rides to the Corrington program because they feel sorry for people. You're here because you're talented enough to be here. Don’t let anyone make you think differently."

I nodded, though the doubt still gnawed at me. Talent was one thing—surviving the social warfare was another entirely.

Northwood was everything. My only shot at the kind of training that could launch a professional theater career. I had to succeed here, no matter what Dorian Ashworth and his pack threw at me.

"Ready for the gauntlet?" Stephanie asked, shouldering her rainbow-patterned backpack.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I replied, though my hands were already trembling slightly.

"Hey," she said, catching my arm gently. "Whatever happens today, remember—you're not facing it alone. I've got your back."

Thescholarshipmeetingwasexactly as predicted: a thinly veiled reminder of how precarious my position was at Northwood. The financial aid director, a pinch-faced Beta woman with immaculate silver hair, spent forty-five minutes outlining the "expectations of excellence" required to maintain funding.