SNAPPED (The Slate Brothers 1)

“Ashlynn— nice to meet you. Maybe people will drop,” I say hopefully.

“Let’s hope so,” she answers.

I wonder what the hell is wrong with us, hoping that people drop out of a student advocacy group, but whatever— the dream is law school and working with the ACLU, and cool as the advocacy group is, I don’t think I should devote a crazy amount of time to it if it’s not going to help me achieve those dreams.

More people cram into the room, and finally, the lawyers arrive. There’re two men and three women, and while they’re all smiling and generally polite-looking, they also have serious, cutting eyes and Italian leather briefcases. They sit down at the conference table and introduce themselves, remarking on just how large the group has grown in the last few years.

“But this is a good thing! Even though clearly we’re violating the fire code, cramming all of you into this tiny spot,” the oldest of the men says with a small chuckle. The rest of the room laughs a little too hard, likely because the man looks to be the one in charge— he’s seated at the center, and has done most of the talking. He goes on in an old Southern drawl, “We have a few different issues we’d like to tackle this year, based on student feedback over the last few years. Let’s go ahead and split into groups, maybe nine or ten people per?” The other lawyers nod at him in agreement, and immediately rise, waving their folders above their heads as they move to different areas of the room. The students hustle and fritter around, darting to follow their lawyer of choice.

I have no idea how they’re choosing which lawyer to go after, but when I see Sarah frantically rush toward the guy who was speaking earlier, I know he must be the best— she seemed pretty in-the-know, after all. I clamber along behind her, at one point nearly vaulting the conference room table to get to him. I shoulder my way through the other students orbiting him, just in time for his hand to light on my shoulder—

“And, you’re ten! Perfect— let’s go outside, yes?” the lawyer says. Other students rush away to their second choice, and Sarah gives me a warm smile, seeing I made it into the headcount. We follow the lawyer outside and into one of the unoccupied adjacent group study rooms. We take seats across from him at a large round table— despite the circle shape, no one dares to sit directly beside him, so it’s still clear that he’s at the “head”.

“Alright, alright. I’m Rickson Farrow, of Farrow and Associates, and I’m excited to have you all on my team this year,” he says with a smile that’s friendly, but a little scary too— like he might give you that smile while he destroys you in a courtroom. “My team is going to be taking on a particularly tough project, because it deals with a school tradition that goes back decades. Too many decades, if you ask me. New Recruits Week.”

Heads nod all around me, but I barely know what he’s talking about. I seem to remember someone mentioning New Recruits Week in passing. Maybe? Is everyone else faking understanding this too? I hope so. This is what I get for locking myself in my bedroom and studying most nights.

“Now, you look like a nice collection of students,” the man says with a smile. “And I know most of the time, those wishing to advance themselves by being a part of something like the student advocacy group would not partake in such a tradition. So perhaps you aren’t familiar— let me explain. New Recruits Week is when the school allows high school players being scouted for the football program to attend Berkfield for a week, ostensibly to become familiar with the program and the school. But, as is so often the case with young men unleashed, the reality is a week filled with sex, drinking, parties, and debauchery.” Farrow’s eyes harden, like he’s telling us the deepest, darkest secret he knows.

“The problem with New Recruits Week is twofold— one, it is bribery, which is against conference rules. Secondly, these players use their power and influence at the school to break laws, engage in clear violations of the student code of conduct, and persuade good young ladies to act against their more proper instincts. It’s a mess, and this year, we aim to stop it.”

A quiet snicker travels the room— Farrow is super old school, apparently. The fact that he said “more proper instincts” in that thick Southern accent only makes him sound more like a 1950s senator. Farrow begins to hand out folders and discuss all the available positions within the project. I blank out for a moment, staring at the folder in my hands, thinking about my aunt. Thinking about myself. Football players really do seem to be able to convince women to act against their instincts— “more proper” or otherwise.