IT’S lunchtime the next day, after my fleeing seventh period moment, and I’m approaching a table filled with girls in my senior class. Girls I’ve gone to school with since the beginning of freshman year, but none of them I can really call my friends.
Not anymore.
Oh, we were close when we all first started. I was brand new and a complete novelty to them, though I didn’t see it then. They thought I was cute and stylish, and I reveled in their attention and approval.
It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Approval. To fit in.
Instead, I stood out. As time went on, they eventually became weary of me, and we all grew farther and farther apart. Until they eventually stopped wanting to spend time with me. They’re all still perfectly polite toward me, as I am to them. The only one who truly tolerates me is Maggie, but not as much since the start of our senior year, especially after I saw what happened between her and Fig.
Something that’s never been brought up again, which is fine by me. Maggie hasn’t confirmed it, but I heard recently that she and Franklin are done for good.
That’s probably best. I hope our teacher had nothing to do with their breakup, though deep down, I have a feeling he did.
If only I had actual proof—then I would say something. But I can’t go to anyone with only a suspicion. What if I was wrong?
I startle the girls when I plop down at their table uninvited, but not a one of them actually says anything to me. Instead, they all smile in my direction before resuming their conversations.
I start eating the salad I purchased in the lunch line, eavesdropping on their nonstop chatter. Hoping to hear a tidbit about Crew I could take back to him during psychology class today.
After walking out on him yesterday, he completely ignored me in Honors English earlier. He wasn’t even waiting in his usual spot at the front entrance like he does every day. I actually missed my morning scowl courtesy of Crew Lancaster.
Not that I think he’s always waiting for me, but it sort of feels that way most of the time…
I quietly eat my salad, not really engaging in any of the conversations around me until Lara asks me a direct question.
“What’s up with you and Crew Lancaster?”
I pause in my chewing, the lettuce turning to mush on my tongue. I choke it down, take a sip of water and clear my throat before I answer, “Nothing.”
“Oh. Well, he’s been asking about you.” This comes from Brooke, who is Lara’s best friend.
My fork drops with a clatter into my nearly empty salad bowl. “What do you mean?”
The best friends share a look before Brooke continues.
“He was asking questions about you. About your family. Your past.” She shrugs.
I hate that he was digging for information. Why didn’t he just come to me and ask? “What did you tell him?”
“What could we tell him? We don’t know a lot about you, Wren.” Lara’s tone is a little snotty. She’s always acted like she has an issue with me.
This is why I don’t bother arguing with her.
“Why is he asking about you anyway?” Lara stares me down.
“I don’t know. We’re working on a project together,” I admit. “In psychology. He’s my partner. Skov assigned us.”
“Ahh. I didn’t take that class this year.” Lara actually sounds disappointed.
“Me either. We should’ve, just for the chance to possibly work with Crew,” Brooke says, right before they both start giggling.
I wish I could tell them how God-awful it is working with Crew, but neither of them would believe me, so I keep my mouth shut.
“He is so incredibly sexy,” Brooke says when the giggling has mostly stopped. Lara nods her agreement. “Last summer, I heard he was seeing that one girl who’s TikTok famous, with like a trillion followers. The one who made a movie?”
“Ugh, I remember. She played all coy and never confirmed it, but I swear I saw photos of them together. She’s disgustingly gorgeous. Of course, he dated her.” Lara rolls her eyes before glancing down at herself. “I could be so lucky to be as thin as she is.”
I take in Lara’s figure as discreetly as I can. She’s very fit. I don’t know why she’s complaining.
“I hear he likes older women,” Brooke says, but I assume she’s only heard gossip about Crew and his supposed preference for older women. I mean really—how does she know? “I can’t remember the last time he was dating a girl who goes here.”
“Freshman year maybe?” Lara nods her agreement.
“What about Ariana?” I say.
They both study me, eerily quiet.
“He went to prom with her last year,” I remind them. “Weren’t they a thing?”
“Oh please. She was a total drug addict. She went to rehab over the summer.” Brooke wrinkles her nose. “He was probably with her to get in good with her dealer.”
Lara laughs, slapping her best friend’s arm. “Brooke!”
“What? It’s true. I know Crew Lancaster likes to partake on occasion.”
How she knows this, I’m not sure, but whatever.
“And like I said, he prefers older women. He definitely doesn’t like girls who go to Lancaster, that’s for sure. Not anymore. Maybe it’s the uniforms?”
I tune them out, glancing down at my uniform skirt, how it drapes over my knees, covering them completely. I hear my father’s voice in my head, always so old-fashioned with his remarks about my appearance. Reminding me I need to keep my skirts at a modest length. No need to show off excess flesh. I’ve been sheltered my entire life, especially after that one painful incident when I was twelve.
When I was young and gullible, and believed everything I was told.
My gaze drops to the stupid shoes on my feet. I remember feeling like they made me seem so stylish, and for a while, I was. The girls here at school considered me a total trendsetter for wearing these shoes.
Now I look at the Mary Jane’s and realize that I look like a child. A little girl with white socks, my bare legs exposed to the chilly air because of “fashion.”
What sort of fashion is this? I look ridiculous.
I am ridiculous. No boy will ever notice me when I look like this.
Certainly not Crew Lancaster.
And since when do I want that particular boy to notice me? He’s horrible.
Yet attractive.
Rude.
Somehow charming.
He doesn’t like me. He basically said that to me, more than once. I don’t like him either. Yet…
I’m drawn to him.
Frustrated, I kick the leg of the table so hard, the entire thing rattles, making the girls’ laughter come to a complete stop.
“Did you just kick the table?” Lara asks me after a moment of uncomfortable silence.
“Sorry.” I shrug, not sorry at all. The word just automatically leaves me every time someone calls me out on something. “I didn’t mean to.”
“You know, Wren, you’re actually really lucky, working with Crew on that project,” Brooke says, and I wonder if she’s suddenly being extra nice to me because of my mini temper tantrum.
“How’s that?”
“Well, it’s psychology, right? Does he have to reveal his innermost secrets or fantasies to you? That could be juicy.” Brooke’s eyes are sparkling with excitement at the idea of learning Crew’s secrets.
I don’t want to know them. He’s mean and horrible, and he calls me judgmental? He’s just as bad as I am.
Maybe even worse.
“I doubt he’ll reveal anything to me,” I admit.
They both stare at the diamond ring on my finger, sharing another one of those looks that communicate so much without ever saying a word.
“True,” Lara says, shifting in her seat.
Normal Wren would pretend she didn’t hear that, or see the shared look, like they know something I don’t. She’d try to change the subject or leap from the table and go find someone else to talk to, but I’m not feeling very ‘normal’ right now.
“What do you mean by that?” I ask.
“Well, that ring you’re wearing, for one,” Brooke says, clearly the braver one of the two. She just comes straight out with it, no hesitation.
“What’s wrong with my ring?” I grip my hands together, turning the ring so the diamond doesn’t show.
“It’s kind of a stigma, you know? Crew probably won’t talk to you since he believes you’re nothing but a scared little virgin promised to her daddy.”
Brooke smirks.
So does Lara.
“I’m sure all of the boys think that,” Brooke adds.
I leap to my feet, purposely nudging the table with my thighs, so I shove it in their direction, making them both yell out their displeasure.
“Oops. Sorry,” I tell them before I turn and leave the dining hall, ignoring all the curious looks aimed in my direction as I flee.
God, I’m so stupid. So…I don’t even know how to describe myself. Pitiful?
Pathetic?
I want to smack myself in the face. Only I would think I’m being strong by shoving a table in their direction after they said something so rude, only for me to go and apologize to them before I run away.
No wonder Crew thinks so little of me. I’m a sheltered little girl pretending to be an almost adult. About to turn eighteen and I haven’t done anything.
Nothing.
It never bothered me before, so why does it bother me now?
For the second time this week, I can feel tears flowing down my face as I walk the empty corridors of school, speeding up my pace as I go past the faculty room.
No way do I want Fig to come out and catch me again. He’d probably offer me more comfort and try to feel me up.
A shiver steals over me at the thought. The first horrible thought I’ve had about Figueroa since I started at Lancaster.
Maybe I shouldn’t be his TA.
I head for the side doors that lead to the quad and push through them, the icy cold air is like a slap to the face. I suck in a sharp breath, tucking my jacket around me, wishing I’d brought my coat, but I left it in my locker, not planning on needing it until school was finished.
Rounding the corner of the building, I come to a stop when I spot three male heads bent together. A puff of smoke rising from the center of the circle they make. I know every single one of them, and I come to a complete stop, frozen.
Not just from the chilly air, but from the straight panic zipping through me at seeing these particular three boys.
Ezra, Malcolm, and Crew.
It’s Malcolm who spots me first, holding a strange looking cigarette to his lips before he wraps them around it and takes a long, hard pull. His gaze finds mine, surprise clearly on his face as he removes the cigarette from his lips and drops his hand to his side. “Oh fuck, look who’s joining us.”
He elbows Crew, Ezra glancing over his shoulder, his eyes going wide when he spots me. “Great,” Ezra moans, “you going to tell on us, Beaumont?”
Tell on them for what? My nose wrinkles when the scent hits me. Like skunk. Oh…
They’re smoking weed.
Crew watches me with those all-seeing blue eyes, never saying a word, and my heart starts to beat faster.
“I’m sorry.” I really need to stop apologizing all the time. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just leaving…” I start to walk backward slowly, one step at a time, keeping my eyes on them. At the last second, I turn.
And run.
