Chapter 3 New Air, Old Shoes

It was a long ride, but nothing prepared me for what I saw when we finally arrived. As we approached the gates of Berrocks University, I was completely stunned.

The school was something out of a dream. The main building stood tall and elegant, a perfect blend of old-world architecture and modern design. Everything-from the stonework to the landscaping-screamed class and wealth.

My dad and I drove through slowly, the bus humming under us as we entered a world that looked nothing like the one I had known.

At the gate, a stern-looking security guard stepped forward. "What's your business here?" he asked sharply.

"Good morning," my dad responded with a polite smile. "This is my son, Peter. He just got accepted here on a scholarship."

The guard's eyes shifted toward me, then to our bus. "Ah, that explains the bus," he muttered before starting a full inspection of the vehicle.

I didn't think much of it until he started going through my bags like he was searching for hidden contraband. It was humiliating. Other cars-sleek, luxury models-were being waved through without so much as a glance. But us? We were being treated like suspects.

I looked at my dad, expecting him to step in, but to my surprise, he was smiling calmly, like everything was normal. It made me uneasy.

"We don't deserve to be treated like this," I thought.

Then the guard said, "Sir, I'm sorry, but you can't drive this bus any further."

"What? But look-those cars are going in without a problem," I protested, pointing to a line of flashy vehicles cruising past us. "Why are we being singled out?"

"You can't compare this bus to those cars," the guard replied coldly. "They're in a different class."

His words hit hard, but I stood my ground. "That's not fair. A vehicle is a vehicle. We all came here for the same reason."

"Peter," my dad said sharply. "Mind your tone."

Then he turned to the guard with a more diplomatic approach. "I understand, sir. We just need to help my son settle into his dorm. Can we drive a bit further to unload his things?"

After a long pause, the guard nodded reluctantly. "Alright. Go ahead."

As we drove past the gate, Dad turned to me. "I know you wanted to speak up, and I respect that. But there's a right way to do it. You have to learn how to choose your battles."

"But you told me to stand up for myself," I replied.

"I did," he said. "But standing up for yourself doesn't mean picking a fight. In a place like this, being smart about how you handle things matters just as much as being right."

"You don't want to mess with the wrong people, trust me, so." he added.

I nodded, taking in his words. He was right. There was a bigger picture here.

Once we were inside the campus, all my irritation disappeared. The school was breathtaking. Every corner looked like something out of a movie-wide courtyards, artistic fountains, and students dressed in high-end fashion. The air itself felt expensive.

It was beautiful. Too beautiful.

Manicured lawns stretched endlessly. The buildings were made of glass, stone, and ambition. Students in designer clothes walked like they owned the place. Even the air smelled expensive.

The school felt more like a private estate than an academic institution. Majestic statues stood tall at every turn, and the buildings looked like royal palaces. The students were clearly from money-designer clothes, luxury watches, and the kind of confidence that comes from knowing you belong.

I glanced at my dad. He was just as captivated by the view as I was. So much so that he didn't notice the bright yellow Lamborghini parked a few feet in front of us.

"DAD, WATCH OUT!" I yelled, snapping him out of his daze just in time.

Dad's reflexes kicked in instantly. He slammed the brakes, and the bus lurched to a halt with a screech that echoed across the courtyard. Tires squealed against the pavement, drawing startled glances from every direction. Students stopped mid-conversation. The owner of the car spun around, horror on her face.

My heart thundered in my chest. Dad, rattled but composed, muttered a quick apology and reversed the bus, easing it away from the exotic car. All eyes were on us-some amused, others irritated. I could feel the weight of every stare.

"Phew," I exhaled. "That was close."

A girl stepped out of the Lamborghini. She looked about my age, but her poise and the way she carried herself made it obvious-she was used to power and attention. Designer sunglasses pushed up into her hair, flawless makeup, clothes that probably cost more than our monthly income.

She glanced at her car, then turned to us with a frown. "You almost scratched my car. You should thank your stars, Do you even realize how much this costs, old man?" Her voice dripped with entitlement.

I clenched my fists, feeling the sting of humiliation. First the security guard, now this. Was this what we'd signed up for?

"My apologies, miss," my dad said calmly, his voice respectful. But she just rolled her eyes and walked off like we were beneath her.

"She didn't need to be that rude," I muttered as we got out of the bus.

Dad nodded. "True. But what matters is that we didn't hit the car. Let's be thankful."

The girl stormed over, her heels clicking like accusations.

Still, I could feel it-the way they looked at us. Like we didn't belong.

We parked the bus in a designated area filled with cars I'd only seen in magazines. Ferraris. Bentleys. A Rolls-Royce. And then, our modest bus, standing out like a sore thumb. As we stepped out, I felt the weight of countless eyes on us.

"They're staring," I said.

"They are," Dad replied, his tone even. "Let's find the Dean's office and get you settled. Let's do our best and avoid all this attention. "