THE MOMENT the double doors clang shut behind me, I’m glancing over my shoulder, trying to spot Crew Lancaster through the opaque glass. But all I can make out is his dark blond head, plus the heads of his other friends. Malcolm and Ezra.
They don’t intimidate me like Crew does. Malcolm is a giant flirt with a distinctly wicked edge. Ezra is always looking for a laugh.
While Crew stands there and broods. It’s his thing. I don’t like his thing.
I frown at my thoughts—that last one in particular seemed vaguely inappropriate, and I do not have thoughts like that—
“Wren, will you sit with us today at lunch?” one of the girls asks me.
Oh. I get to thinking about Crew and I forget what’s going on around me. Like the fact that I have four freshmen currently following me everywhere I go.
Smiling faintly at the girl who asked me about lunch, I say, “I’m so sorry, but I have a meeting to attend today during lunch. Maybe another time?”
The disappointment they feel at my rejection is palpable, yet I smile through it. They all reluctantly nod their heads at the same time, before they send each other a look and slink away, never saying a word to me.
It’s odd, having a fan club when I do nothing but simply…exist.
A shuddery exhale leaves me, and I head down the corridor. The pressure these girls unknowingly put on my shoulders to be perfect sometimes feels insurmountable. They have me up on such a high pedestal, it would take nothing to send me tumbling. I’d end up a disappointment to all, and that’s the last thing I want. The last thing they’d want.
I have an image to uphold, and sometimes it feels… Impossible.
It’s a lot of responsibility, being a role model for so many females like me. Lost girls who come from rich families. Girls who just want to fit in and belong. To feel normal and have a typical high school experience.
Granted, we’re at an exclusive private school that only the upper echelon of society attends so there’s nothing normal about our life, but still. We try and make it as normal as we possibly can, because some of us suffer, just like everyone else. With self-esteem issues, our studies, the expectations put upon us by family and friends and teachers. We feel unseen, unknown.
I know I did.
Sometimes I still do.
That’s my goal in life currently—to help others feel comfortable and maybe even find like themselves. When I was younger, I used to think I might want to be a nurse, but my father talked me out of that profession by ranting on and on how nurses do a lot of hard work for nominal pay.
Nominal according to him. Harvey Beaumont is rich—he took over his father’s real estate business when he was barely thirty and made it thrive, and now he’s a billionaire. His only daughter becoming a nurse would be so beneath him and the Beaumont name.
It’s something I can’t even consider. It doesn’t matter what I want.
Whatever move I want to make, I need his permission first. I’m his only child, his only daughter, and I can’t be trusted to always make the right decision.
I make my way toward my first period class, Honors English. Only twenty people are allowed in the class our senior year and, of course, Crew is in there. I’ve had a few classes with him since I started at Lancaster Prep, but I’ve never had to sit by him or talk directly to him, which I prefer.
As in, I’ve never had a conversation with him. I don’t think he likes me much, considering the faint sneer that’s always on his face when he watches me.
And he watches me a lot.
I don’t understand why. I avoid eye contact with him as much as possible, but every once in a while, I stare into his icy blue eyes and I see nothing but disgust.
Nothing but hate.
Why? What did I ever do to him?
Crew Lancaster is too much. Too moody and too dark and too quiet. Too handsome and magnetic and smart. I don’t like how I feel when his eyes are on me. All shivery and strange. The feeling is completely unfamiliar and only happens when I’m in his vicinity, and it doesn’t make any sense.
I turn down the corridor that houses the English department, eager to get to class early, so I can secure my seat in the front row, direct center. When my friends come into class, I always make sure they sit by me, so no one unsavory can. Like Crew.
Knowing him, if he had the chance to sit close to me, he would. Just to rattle me.
I think he would enjoy that.
Our teacher, Mr. Figueroa, doesn’t assign seats, and he has a very relaxed attitude in this class. Considering we’re seniors and he handpicked each student to be in his advanced class before the school year started, he trusts us not to act out or cause trouble. He just wants to “mold young minds,” as he says, without restrictions or boundaries. He’s my favorite teacher, and he’s asked me to be a teacher’s aide for the spring semester.
Of course, I immediately said yes.
I enter the classroom, coming to a sudden stop when I spot Figueroa in an embrace with someone. A student, because she’s wearing a plaid uniform skirt and blue blazer. Her hair is a deep auburn, a shade I recognize, and when he gives her a nudge, she springs out of his arms, turning to face me.
Maggie Gipson. My friend. Her face is streaked with drying tears, and she sniffs, blinking at me. “Oh hey, Wren.”
“Maggie.” I go to her, lowering my voice so Fig won’t hear us. That’s what he tells us to call him, though all the guys make fun of the nickname behind his back. I figure they’re all just jealous of the relationships he has with us girls. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She sniffs again, shaking her head. Which tells me she’s not fine at all, but I can’t press the situation. Not when we’re in class. “Just…I got into another argument with Franklin last night.”
“Oh no. I’m sorry.” Franklin Moss is her on-again, off-again boyfriend, and he seems very demanding. Always pressuring her to do things with him sexually. She just needs more conviction within herself, so she can tell him no, and mean it.
But she never tells him no. She’s already had sex with him multiple times, and it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t love her like she wants him to.
I think it’s because she gave it up to him too soon, but she won’t listen to me. Once we entered our junior year and sex became more and more rampant, one by one my friends sacrificed themselves to the boys who begged them for it. At least that’s the word my father used for it—a sacrifice.
The majority of them got nothing but heartache to show for it, and the words I told you so are always on the tip of my tongue when they complain to me, which isn’t too often. Not anymore.
They know how I feel. They know what I might say. They’d rather avoid me versus hear the truth.
“You’ll be fine, Maggie. Keep your head up,” Fig says, his voice soft, his eyes glowing as he takes her in.
I watch him, the hairs on the back of my neck rising as I glance between the two of them. The way he said that, how he’s looking at her—it’s very familiar.
Too familiar.
Other students come shuffling in, their voices loud as they chatter animatedly among one another. I settle into my desk, zipping open my backpack and pulling out my notebook and pencil, getting ready for class to start. Maggie does the same, her gaze on Fig the entire time as he rounds his desk and settles into his chair, a few girls from class coming to talk to him. They all giggle when he says something, the sound grating.
I watch Maggie watch him, wondering at the jealousy I see in her gaze. Hmm.
I don’t like that either.
Just as the bell rings, Malcolm and Crew enter the classroom, as per their usual habits. Sometimes they’re even late, though Fig never marks them tardy for it.
I look away at the last second, not wanting to make eye contact with Crew, but it’s no use. He catches my gaze, his cold blue eyes seeming to penetrate mine, and I stare at him for a second too long, my mouth growing dry.
It’s like being caught in a trap, staring at Crew. It’s almost scary, how much power he seems to wield with just a glance.
His name is on the building. His family has owned Lancaster Prep for hundreds of years. He’s the most privileged student at this school. Whatever he wants, he gets. The girls all want a piece of him. Every boy here wants to be his friend, yet he shuns most everyone. Even a lot of the girls.
I hate to admit this, but we’re a tiny bit similar, Crew and me. We just move about our day in a different way. He’s cruel and unyielding, whereas I’m kind to a fault. I try to be nice to everyone I encounter, and they want a piece of me. He’s mean and snarly, and they always come back for more.
It’s odd.
I finally manage to look away from Crew when Fig stands in front of the white board, his booming voice drawing my attention as he launches into a lecture about our upcoming read, The Great Gatsby. I’ve never read Fitzgerald before, and I’m looking forward to it.
“Wren, can you stay after class for a moment? I’ll make sure to give you a pass,” Mr. Figueroa says to me as he hands me a battered copy of our assigned book.
“Sure.” I nod and smile.
He returns the smile. “Good. I have a few things I want to run by you.”
I watch him walk away, curious. What does he want to talk to me about? We’re still three weeks away from winter break, meaning we’re over a month away from me becoming his teacher’s aide for the spring semester.
Not too sure what else there is to talk about. “What does he want anyway?”
I glance over at Maggie, who’s watching me with narrowed eyes. “You mean Fig?”
“Yes, I mean Fig. Who else?” Her tone is nasty. Like she’s mad.
I lean back a little in my chair, needing the distance. “He just asked me to stay after class. That he had a few things to run by me.”
“Probably has to do with me and what you saw.” Maggie’s expression turns knowing. “He’ll probably ask you to keep it quiet. He doesn’t want anyone to know.”
“Know what?” I mean, I sort of get what she’s implying, but there’s no way Maggie would get—involved with our teacher, would she? She’s been with Franklin for over a year. They’re pretty serious, though they’ve argued a lot lately. Maggie says their relationship is extremely passionate in all ways, and makes it seem like that’s her preference.
But why would you want to be with a guy who you hate and love equally? That makes no sense to me.
“About our friendship, silly.” She watches Fig head back to his desk, a faintly dreamy look on her face. One she usually only reserves for her boyfriend, not our teacher. “People wouldn’t understand.”
“I know I don’t understand,” I retort.
Maggie actually laughs. “Figures. You know Wren, you can be kind of judgey.”
I’m offended. And is that even a word? “You think I’m judgmental?”
“Sometimes.” Maggie shrugs. “You’re so damn perfect in everything you do, and you hold everyone else to the same standards, which is impossible. You get good grades, and you never cause any trouble. The teachers and staff all adore you. You volunteer every chance you get and all the younger girls think you can do no wrong.”
She lists every one of those things like it’s a fault versus a good quality.
“What do you think of me?” I brace myself, sensing I’m not going to like what I hear.
A sigh leaves her as she contemplates me. “I think you’re a very naïve girl who’s been sheltered your entire life. And when the real world finally bites you in the ass, you’re going to be in for a big shock.”
The bell chooses that exact moment to ring, and Maggie doesn’t hesitate. She leaps to her feet, grabs her backpack, and shoves the book into it before she makes her escape without another word. Not even a goodbye to me or Fig.
The rest of the students exit quickly, even Crew, who doesn’t look in my direction. He’s too busy smirking at Malcolm about something.
Something I don’t care to know about, that’s for sure.
I remain in my seat, suddenly nervous over why Mr. Figueroa might want to talk to me. I set my backpack on my desk, shoving the old copy of The
Great Gatsby in the front pocket, briefly checking my phone to see I have a text from my father.
Call me when you get a chance.
My stomach bottoms out. When he texts me to call him, it usually isn’t about anything good.
“I have a free period right now.” Fig strides over to the open classroom door and pulls it shut, cutting off the noise coming from the hallway. It’s eerily quiet. “So it’s the perfect time for us to—chat.”
I rest my hands on top of my backpack and offer him a faint smile, fighting the nerves bubbling up inside me. “Okay.”
He walks over to the desk Maggie just vacated and settles in, his warm gaze landing on mine. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that Fig doesn’t want anything from me beyond help. Despite the whispers and the rumors I’ve heard over the years about him and other female students, he’d never try something like that with me.
Fig knows better.
“What did you want to chat about?” I ask, when he still hasn’t said anything, hating how breathless I sound. Like I’m trying to flirt with him, when that’s the last thing I want to do.
He tilts his head, contemplating me. “You’re turning eighteen next month, aren’t you?”
I blink at him, surprised he’d know that fact. I’m sure he could look it up in my personal file, but why would he care? Do teachers even have access?
“I am. On December 25th.” The words fall from my lips slowly, my gaze questioning.
Where is he going with this?
A pleasant smile curls his lips. “A Christmas baby. How sweet.”
“It’s actually the worst. People give you presents wrapped in bright red paper with Santas all over it.” God, I sound ungrateful, but I’m only
speaking the truth.
“Is that a cardinal sin?” His brows shoot up, his eyes sparkling. I’m sure he’s teasing me, but he doesn’t understand what it’s really like.
No one does, unless they have a birthday on a major holiday like me.
“I wouldn’t say it’s that bad. It’s just no fun having your birthday and Christmas at the same time. Your birthday is never as special as someone’s who’s in June or whatever,” I explain.
“I’m sure.” He nods, his tone grave. “Well, Wren, I’m excited to have you come on as my TA next semester.”
I’m thankful for the change in subject. I don’t want to talk about anything personal pertaining to me.
“I’m excited too.” I’m just grateful for the free period next semester. I’ve heard it’s pretty easy, being his TA. He doesn’t ask you to do much.
“You’ll be replacing Maggie. That’s why she was crying earlier. I told her I didn’t need her to be a TA for me any longer.”
Alarm races through me, leaving me cold. “What do you mean? I thought you always had a couple of TAs each semester.”
“I do. I still do. Maggie just wasn’t—working out.” He leans over the desk, his face drawing closer to mine. Close enough that I can’t help but rear back. “She’s a little clingy sometimes.”
His voice is low, as if he’s letting me in on a secret. Unease slips down my spine. “Clingy how?”
When he hesitates, I regret asking. Maybe I don’t want to know.
“I gave her my phone number. In case of an emergency, or if she needed to contact me. I didn’t think it would be any big deal.”
If he says so. I think it sounds like a terrible idea. A teacher giving a student his number? That’s a line he probably shouldn’t have crossed.
“And she won’t stop texting me. It’s become…an issue,” he continues.
An issue he brought on himself, is what I want to tell him. But I keep my mouth shut.
“I hope if we happen to exchange numbers when you become my TA next semester that you won’t react that way. I’m looking for someone a little less…excitable. If you know what I mean.” His smile, his entire demeanor is giving off easygoing, no big deal vibes.
But there’s a tension in him, lying just beneath the surface. He just doesn’t want to reveal it.
I’m having a hard time agreeing with what he’s trying to say. I don’t plan on giving him my number ever. That’s inappropriate. And I’m not interested in having a relationship with him beyond student/teacher.
It makes me wonder what exactly happened between Maggie and Franklin
—and if Fig has anything to do with it.
“I should go.” I rise to my feet, grabbing my backpack and slinging it over my shoulder. “I don’t want to be too late to second period.”
I’m almost to the door when Fig calls out my name. I freeze, my hand on the doorknob as I slowly glance over my shoulder to see Fig standing directly in front of me.
Terribly close.
“You forgot your pass.” He hands out the familiar blue slip of paper. “Don’t want you to be marked tardy.”
I face him fully and take the note from his fingers, hating how he tightens his hold on it for a second too long, making me tug. Pulling me even closer to him. He eventually lets me take it, his lips curved, his gaze dark.
“Thank you,” I say weakly, turning toward the door. “Bye, Wren,” he calls once I’ve pushed the door open. I don’t answer him as I flee.
