The Retired Gang Leader.

"Get outta the way! What are you, a speed bump?"

An arm slammed into my back. I lost my grip on my suitcase and stumbled.

Something crashed behind me—loud. Then a high-pitched scream.

I caught my balance and turned. A girl in a spotless Chanel skirt suit was on the floor, next to a silver Hermès suitcase.

One corner was dented. She was clutching it like a lifeline, staring at the damage like someone had kicked her dog. Pale as a ghost.

"My suitcase!" she shrieked, whipping her head up so fast her blinged-out nails nearly stabbed me. "Are you blind?! Watch it! This is Hermès—fifty grand! Limited edition! Discontinued! You wrecked it, moron!"

Her voice echoed down the dorm hall. Doors cracked open. Freshmen peeked out, whispering like it was drama o'clock.

I glanced at the suitcase—silver shell, custom everything. Then I saw it.

Tiny metal tag on the side, frosted finish. Two fancy letters: VV.

Vincci Visconti.

No wonder it looked familiar.

I looked up at the drama queen losing her mind. Something about her felt weirdly familiar.

Every year, our family's education foundation sent us a list of scholarship kids. One name stuck—Sharon Brooke. From some tiny nowhere town in the southwest.

Sharon. Yep, her. I remembered the photo—patched-up clothes, shy eyes, barely smiling. Definitely not this designer-clad diva with claws out.

"Cat got your tongue?!" she snapped, thinking I was scared.

She puffed up, got in my face, finger wagging. "Stop staring and cough it up! You're not walking away unless you pay! Fifty grand—no, wait—eighty! Pain and suffering! I scraped my knee, you menace! You hear me, country bumpkin?!"

"Pfft..." I couldn't help laughing. She was really trying to scam me with a straight face. "You're loaded and throwing a fit over pocket change?"

"Excuse me?!" Sharon snapped, eyes bulging. "You shoved me! You broke my suitcase and now you think YOU'RE the victim?"

"What's going on? Sharon, you okay?"

Two girls decked out just as flashy rushed over from the dorm next door. One grabbed each arm, shooting me death glares like I'd committed a felony.

Winnie and Paula. The other two roommates. Of course.