SUMMER
AFTER LUNCH I HAVE A BREAK, though it’s actually a study hall period. I go to the library and find a spot in the back of the cavernous building, settling in at a small, unoccupied table. I pull out my math assignment, working through it hurriedly, distracted by the beautiful architecture. It’s old, with soaring ceilings and gothic windows made of gorgeous stained-glass. Something you’d see out of a movie about witches and warlocks.
I receive a text notification and I check it to see it’s from Mother.
Are you settling in?
I don’t bother answering yet. Not that she cares. She’s already on her way back home, to the apartment she inherited upon Jonas’ death. No more fifth floor walkups for her. She’ll be taken care of for the rest of her life. If I’m lucky, she’ll leave a little bit for me when she dies.
Knowing how much she enjoys spending money, I probably won’t be so lucky.
There are other people in the library, and they talk in hushed tones, their heads bent close together, gossiping and smiling and laughing. Seeing them makes me long for my friends at my old school. I miss them. But when the scandal broke out about Yates and me, just before the fire happened, I couldn’t show my face there ever again. Everyone knew what he was doing to me.
And not a single damn person did one thing to stop it.
Shoving my anger back down, I focus once again on my math homework, oblivious to the sound of footsteps until a soft, female voice says hello.
I nearly jump out of my skin, my head jerking up to find a girl standing by my table.
She smiles shyly, her long, dark blonde hair flowing far past her shoulders. Almost to her waist. Her face is pale, her eyes a haunted blue, and she smiles with rosebud lips, vividly red compared to the snow white of her skin. “You’re new.”
I can’t help but smile in return. “I am.” “May I sit with you?”
I wave my hand at the three open chairs at my table. “Be my guest.”
She settles into the chair closest to mine, dropping her backpack on the table with a loud thump. I watch as she digs through the contents, pulling out a history textbook and letting it land on the table with an echoing slap. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear a faint, “Shush!” that I’m sure came from the front desk.
“She hates noise,” the girl tells me with a faint smile. “Who?”
“The librarian. Miss Taylor. She’s as old as this building.” The girl laughs and I can’t help but join in. It’s an infectious sound and I immediately feel at ease with her. Far more at ease than with the other two at lunch. “Notice how there are a bunch of spinster teachers who work here? I think this is where virgin educators go to die.”
She laughs even harder. She reminds me of an angel, but she definitely has a devious mind.
I warm up to this girl even more. “You like it here?” she asks me.
“It’s nice,” I say with a shrug, glancing at my math paper yet again. I have one more problem to solve, and then I’m done.
She leans in close, her voice a harsh whisper. “It’s easy.” I raise a brow. “You think?”
“I know.” She glances back, as if making sure no one’s around, before she returns her attention to me. “I’m a junior. You’re a senior?”
I nod, wondering how she knows. “I am.”
“Went to Billington?” She whistles low when my eyebrows shoot up. “That place is fancy.”
“And this place isn’t?” My voice is dry, my heart racing. How does she know where I went to school?
She shrugs. “It’s nothing.”
Her words are so dismissive. Obviously, Lancaster Prep doesn’t impress her.
“Have you always gone here?” I ask her. That’s the only explanation as to why she doesn’t see the beauty of this place. The old buildings, the gothic chapel with the spire that rises high into the sky. The lush green grounds, the forest behind the campus, and the ocean just beyond, crashing against the shore.
It’s like a dream.
“My entire life,” she sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes and blowing out an exaggerated breath. “At least, that’s what it feels like.”
“How do you know so much about me?” I inquire, intrigued but not unnerved. Her demeanor is somehow disarming.
“I have my ways and my sources,” she replies mysteriously. “I know your name is Summer Savage—cool name, by the way. Very primal. You’re from Manhattan and got enrolled last minute, even though Lancaster was way past the enrollment deadline.”
The way she emphasizes “deadline” suggests a certain enjoyment in the words.
“They assigned you a single dorm room, which is pretty remarkable given the enrollment status. You must have some connections with someone influential—Augustus, maybe? I also heard you made an appearance in honors English this morning. I’m sure it ruffled some feathers. Those girls work so hard to get into Figueroa’s class, all eager to be near him. He’s been involved with a few, although you didn’t hear that from me. So, yes, you definitely have some friends in high places.” Her smile broadens, her blue eyes gleaming.
Realization hits me, and I sit up straighter, trying to shake off the unease crawling down my spine. This girl should detest me. Maybe she already does.
“I’m Sylvie, by the way. Sylvie Lancaster.” She takes a good look at my face and bursts into laughter, so loudly that Miss Taylor hushes her once more. “We’ve never met before, but I feel like I know everything about you.”
“Same here,” I admit hoarsely. Talking to her feels like fraternizing with the enemy.
Dangerous.
“Oh, don’t look so surprised. I don’t care about what your mother did with my father.” She dismisses the scandalous stories about our parents with a wave of her hand. “Our mother was determined to make our father’s life miserable throughout their marriage. It was his only escape.”
“You really believe that?” I ask, incredulous. It seems to matter little to her, whereas her brother treated me like a pariah when we were barely teenagers.
I think about what the girls said about him, how he likes to dominate when he kisses. Despite the depravity, I’m curious. I wouldn’t mind feeling Whit’s warm hand around my throat, pinning me against a wall as he devoured me with his mouth.
I must be sick.
“I lived with them my whole life, witnessing their disastrous marriage. Yes, I believe that,” she states solemnly. “My older brother thinks your mother is the devil incarnate, blaming her entirely. Our baby sister believes our father ruined everything, often fighting with him about our mother’s fragile state before she found a way out.”
“And what do you think?” I ask.
“They’re all responsible for their actions, aren’t they? They’re adults. Were they thinking of the children? No. But when do they ever think of the children?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “They’re selfish, wrapped up in their own worlds. Why do you think there’s a boarding school bearing our family name? So they can send us away and pretend we don’t exist.”
Sylvie lays it out so logically that it makes sense. She’s probably right. When do they think of the children?
Never. My parents neglected me and Yates when it mattered most. Why else would he have pursued me so boldly? He knew he’d get away with it.
Well, I showed him.
“Does your brother know I’m here?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
“No. Yes? I’m not sure. We haven’t discussed you, and your name has never come up between us. Whit and I don’t talk much. He finds me annoying,” she says, unbothered.
“How did you find out so much about me?”
“I hacked into the school’s files.” She grins as I gape at her. “It’s an old system. Even my grandma could hack into it, and she’s been dead for two years.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Does anyone know you hack the school’s system?”
“Just a select few. You’re one of them now.” Her smile is small, eyes twinkling. “If you ever have a grade issue, let me know. I can fix it.” She snaps her fingers.
“I get good grades,” I assure her.
“Now.” She smiles, unfazed, while my own smile fades.
I’m sure she’s gone through my entire file from Billington, savoring every detail, all those suspensions for drugs, backtalk, and sex on campus. I was a nightmare. My first two years of high school were rough. I was acting out, crying for help, craving attention, good or bad.
But no one listened. Worse, they wanted to send me away to military school, thinking it would solve everything.
I suppose getting away from Yates would’ve helped, but I didn’t want to leave like that. One of the last nights we were together as a family, after everyone went to bed, he held me close and said he’d miss me when I was gone. I realized he thought I didn’t want to leave because we’d be separated.
But that wasn’t the case. Not for me.
“You seem like someone with a lot of secrets,” Sylvie observes, breaking my thoughts.
I focus on her, her eyes narrowed. “I’m an open book,” I lie.
She says nothing. She doesn’t have to.
She doesn’t believe me. She shouldn’t. I have plenty of secrets, and they’re all terrible.
I hurry into American Government just as the final bell rings, sending an apologetic glance to the teacher at his desk. I lingered too long in the library, enjoying my conversation with Sylvie, feeling guilty because of my connection to her brother. We didn’t mention him, not once.
And I preferred it that way.
The classroom is full, every seat taken except for a couple at the back. I make my way there, not watching where I’m going, and trip over a backpack in my path, sprawling onto the floor.
It feels like the whole class sees my fall and bursts into laughter.
I lie there for a moment, my cheek against the cool floor, my knees throbbing from the impact. A draft brushes against my thighs, and I realize my skirt flipped up, showing my black shorts—thankfully, I wore those instead of just underwear.
The teacher rushes over, his footsteps squeaking on the floor. “Are you all right?” he asks.
The laughter subsides, but I still hear whispers. A boy asks outright, “Who the hell is she?”
I quickly gather myself, rising to my knees and smoothing my hair. I hear someone gasp, and when I look to my left, I’m face-to-face with the angel of my dreams.
The devil of my nightmares.
Whit Lancaster, staring at me as if I’m a ghost.
Gripping my backpack strap tightly, I stand, avoiding his gaze and sitting in the nearest empty chair.
Right behind Whit.
Damn it.
The teacher’s stern look quiets everyone before he starts talking, but I don’t hear a word. My heart is pounding, roaring in my ears, through my blood. I hold my breath, then exhale a stream of mint, thanks to the gum I chewed earlier.
I hope he doesn’t notice.
I look down and realize I tripped over Whit’s backpack. Of course. I sit there, shaking, my knees stinging, staring at my desk, afraid to look up. When I finally do…
I’m looking at the back of his head.
As another shaky breath leaves me, I pull out my binder and notebook, hands still trembling, ready to take notes as the teacher leans against his desk, arms crossed, talking about his expectations for the year.
He hands out a syllabus, and my heart races. Whit will have to turn around to pass it to me. I wait, hands clammy, legs shaking, and watch as the stack reaches Whit.
But he doesn’t pass it to me. He keeps both copies, shoulders squared, eyes on the teacher. I want to poke him with my pencil and demand the syllabus.
Instead, I raise my hand.
“Yes?” the teacher acknowledges me with kind eyes, probably feeling bad about my fall.
“I didn’t get a syllabus.”
He frowns. “That’s strange. I counted them.” He grabs an extra and hands it to me.
“Thank you,” I say.
The teacher talks for the rest of the class, but I don’t listen. I can’t focus with Whit in front of me, ignoring me. I can smell him. Warm, spicy, masculine. I study his hair, dark blond, almost brown, neat and a bit long on top. It looks soft, like it would cling if I ran my fingers through it.
Finally, the bell rings, ending the class and the day. I sit, immobilized, as everyone rushes out for fall sports practice. I try to wait out Whit, but he’s slow, too.
He turns around slowly to face me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, voice low, eyes sharp. “I go here,” I reply, breathless.
“No, you don’t,” he retorts, leaning away, as if I might infect him.
I hate him. But I’m drawn to him, the pull there, and I wonder if he feels it.
“I’m enrolled,” I say, packing my things. “Whether you like it or not.”
He glares.
I glare back.
He speaks first.
“Nice fall earlier. Must’ve hurt landing on your knees.” He smirks. “Though I’m sure you’re used to it.”
His insult cuts deep. “Screw you,” I say, standing.
Whit stands, blocking my path. He’s taller, wider, stronger, but I refuse to be intimidated.
“I’m sure you’d love it if I did,” he taunts. I don’t know how the teacher doesn’t hear. “You’re a cheap whore, like your mother.”
I dodge around him and escape, not looking back. His laughter follows me, echoing in my mind.
Reminding me I’m my mother’s daughter.
A cheap whore.
