Derby Harrington was rich.
But did that really matter?
He sat in the balcony of his mansion in Old Bullworth Vale, a glass of blended scotch whiskey in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. He would take a sip and a drag from time to time, and he stare grimly into the distance.
He was rich. He had everything. He could do whatever he wanted to in the school; he would always be excused. He was going to marry his beautiful cousin, and keep up what his family called "tradition." He had a bunch of friends who, though slightly lower than his, had a very, very respectable status.
But what was all that worth?
It's strange the way a humbled mind thinks. Jimmy had defeated him twice, and boy had he learnt to respect him. Sure, he may have come from a family that was no so well-off, and he may have been unruly, but he sure knew the difference between right and wrong. And Derby, being a good leader, appreciated a fellow leader when he saw one.
But, back to the humbled mind. Derby had begun to question the Prep cause after their fall. Was being snobbish, arrogant and condescending to everyone, just because they were poor, really what defined a group of kids who had derived their status from their parents' wealth? The fact that whatever Derby was, was only because of the wealth he inherited from his rich parents troubled him many a time. You see, he was a man of principle, though not many knew it. His vanity had, however, completely overshadowed the better part of him, and this led to many people thinking that he was a spoiled brat, including some of the Preppies.
That evening he sat in his balcony, drinking and smoking, wondering whether he was right all this time. And what burnt him the most was that he knew he wasn't.
Though he did not want to think of them, not because they were poor, but because they would make him feel worse about himself, his mind kept wandering to the Greasers. More so, the torture inflicted by the Preps on the Greasers. It did occur to Derby that most of the time, it was the Preps who had instigated the Greasers. The latter had been called poor, slum-dwellers, worthless, scum of the Earth, and what not.
Did they deserve it?
They had been egged, punched, kicked, made to bleed….were they asking for it? Or had they been given it, without any valid reason?
Their territory had been invaded, their Tenements had been smashed, their cycles had been damaged….could they afford to repair all of them? And for once, Derby did not mean that statement in a condescending way.
They were just young adults, like Derby and the rest. But they had been going through poverty right from their birth, unlike Derby and the rest. They deserved a good childhood and adolescent period too, just like Derby and the rest. But were they getting it?
Were the Preps making life any easier for their Bullworth counterparts?
The Preps could literally buy happiness. The Greasers couldn't.
Could the Preps share?
The living room of Derby's house was filled with the sound of glass shattering. Derby had flung his glass of scotch behind, at it had hit a wall; the scotch now dripped from a mantelpiece.
He got up and stubbed the cigarette. Then he cried.
Derby Harrington seldom cried. He was, after all, supposed to be heartless. But that's where everybody was wrong.
Derby Harrington had a heart.
Sure, it may have been gold-plated and all. But he had a heart. And as he looked into the past, he realized that he had not used that heart.
He had money, he had class, he had everything he could have wished for. But what was the point?
He had tortured a class of people who were not as fortunate as him. And that was wrong.
He respected people who had a clear sense of the right and wrong. How could he have been so blinded by his wealth?
He was so delusional, so engrossed in material pleasures, so lost in his supposed grandeur, that he could not see what he was destroying.
He was supposed to help the poor. Not torture them.
Derby felt like an animal. But an animal has emotions. Derby felt like he didn't have them.
He cried and cried.
Was it the scotch, the cigarette that made him feel this way?
He knew it was not.
This is what he had wanted to do for a long time. But couldn't.
He was, after all, the head of the snobs.
After what seemed like ages, Derby got off the floor. The sky now was dark, and a cold breeze was blowing. He walked into the living room, which still smelled of scotch, and shut the door of the balcony behind him.
He walked up to the mirror, and looked at himself. He used to look at the mirror every morning to see if he was dressed properly. He had, after all, a reputation to protect.
But that evening, he saw someone else. Someone with red eyes and dishevelled hair. Someone who seemed wiser than the blockhead he was used to seeing every morning.
He saw the other Derby Harrington.
He knew what he had to do. It did not seem tough anymore. He knew he was up to the task.
He knew he had to meet Johnny Vincent.
