I ENTER the administration office at Lancaster Prep not so bright and early on Monday. The first day of school. The first day of my senior year.
Headmaster Matthews’ secretary lifts her head, her gaze narrowing when she spots me. “You’re late.”
I come to a stop at the counter, widening my eyes on purpose. “Oh, I am? Sorry.”
She can tell I’m not sorry at all, because I’m not.
The woman ignores my fake apology. “The headmaster has been waiting for you.”
“Where’s his office?” I make like I’m going to approach one of the two closed doors in the area, and she stops me with a firm clearing of her throat.
“I’ll go fetch him.” She bustles away, her wide hips swinging, and I lean against the old wood counter, tapping my fingers absently as I gaze around the room.
There are awards and photos all over the dark walls. Photos of people I recognize, many of them relatives. The Lancaster family has owned this private school for hundreds of years. The original Augustus Lancaster was a stickler for education and wanted to provide only the best that money can buy. The school is so exclusive, so incredibly difficult to get into, that it’s a badge of honor if you graduate from Lancaster Prep.
And here I am being forced to attend. I would gladly give up my seat to any one of the thousands who are dying to go to this hellhole.
The door swings open and the secretary’s gaze lands on mine. “He’ll see you now.”
I push away from the counter and walk past her with barely a glance in her direction, striding into the tiny, messy office and coming to an abrupt stop.
Headmaster Matthews is standing behind his desk, a pleasant smile on his face. He’s an attractive man for someone who must be in his late forties. Dark brown hair with faint graying at the temples that gives him a dignified air. Light brown eyes that crinkle pleasantly at the corners and a wide, smiling mouth. He’s clad in brown corduroy trousers and a striped sweater in various tones of brown and cream, despite the fact that it’s warm outside and will most likely be in the eighties today.
He’s giving East Coast Academia vibes for sure.
“Carolina Lancaster.” He thrusts his hand out toward me. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”
“It’s nice to see you.” I shake his hand, using the proper greeting anyone who comes from money knows to use. You’d think he’d use it too, considering he’s been dealing with the children of some of the wealthiest people in the world for who knows how many years.
I settle into the chair across from his desk and he does the same, his expression pleasant and open. Like he’s looking forward to being my friend, which we both know is a lie. I’m sure my parents filled him in on my reluctance to go to this school.
“I’m looking forward to getting to know you this school year, though I won’t have nearly as much time with you as I had with your siblings,” he says as he turns toward his computer, his gaze roving over the screen, his forehead crinkling in seeming concentration.
I smile and nod, resting my hands on my knees. I’m in the school uniform, hating how the wool skirt scratches my thighs, and the loafers on my feet are incredibly stiff, rubbing against the backs of my ankles. I can’t do anything to hurt my feet outside of dance—they’re damaged enough already—and I’ll have to grab some Band-Aids to take care of the problem before the day ends.
“I’ve looked over your transcripts. You’re an excellent student.” His gaze zeroes in on me, dead serious as he continues, “Even with your heavy dance schedule, you were able to maintain a solid A-average your entire high school career.”
I’m just as serious when I murmur, “I’m not stupid, Headmaster Matthews.”
I don’t know why I said that. Wait, yes, I do.
His surprise at my accomplishments feels like an insult. Like I can’t manage to devote my life to dance and do well in school at the same time.
His smile falters slightly. “I never said you were, Miss Lancaster.”
I merely stare at him in return, a small smile playing upon my lips.
He sits up straighter, tugging on the neck of his sweater as he returns his attention to his computer screen. “Vivian will give you your schedule. Unfortunately, you’ve missed first period, but you can still sneak into second period. It’ll be over in a half hour.”
Great. I get to “sneak” into a classroom and everyone will notice me, which is the last thing I want as the new girl.
“I trust your accommodations are up to your standards?” He lifts his brows, as if waiting for me to deny his remark.
“They’re adequate.” Being a Lancaster means you get to stay in the special suites that aren’t part of the regular dorm buildings on campus. I have my own room with an attached bathroom away from everyone else.
“They’re still working on converting one of the rooms into a dance studio for you,” Matthews says. “It should be done hopefully by the end of next week.”
I stuff the panic that wants to rise down deep, painting a pleasant smile on my face. I haven’t really danced in days and it feels like my body is changing.
I’m changing. Getting softer.
I haven’t even done my daily barre exercises, and I miss it.
My body misses it. The discipline. The pain.
I crave it.
“Thank you,” I say with as much sincerity as I can muster. “I do appreciate how quickly you’ve helped me with the studio.”
“Of course.”
“Any chance they can finish it sooner?” I ask hopefully.
He slowly shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. “I’m afraid not. Supplies can be hard to come by lately, and the construction team is currently working on multiple projects. They hope to have it finished soon, but no guarantees.”
If I wanted to act like the spoiled brat that I truly am, I would bang my fist on the edge of the desk and demand the studio be finished on time.
But I do none of that. Instead, I rise to my feet, grabbing the book bag I brought with me and sling the strap over my shoulder. The navy jacket I’m wearing that’s part of my uniform stretches tight across my back, thick and oppressive, and I feel myself start to break out into a sweat. “I should go to class.”
“Of course.” He stands as well, rounding his desk and following me out of his office. “Vivian, do you have Miss Lancaster’s schedule?”
Vivian bustles over to the printer and snatches a piece of paper up, handing it to me once I’ve approached the counter. “Thank you,” I tell her.
“Have a lovely day,” Vivian trills, turning her back on me and returning to her desk. Dismissing me completely.
Straightening my spine, I glance over my shoulder at Headmaster Matthews, who’s openly watching me from his office doorway, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “Good luck today, Carolina. Please reach out if you need anything.”
I nod, turning away from him and heading for the door, fleeing the administration office as fast as I possibly can.
Why does it feel like they were both setting me up to fail?
I glance at the schedule, stopping in the wide, empty hall, scanning the list of classes. I have no idea where I’m going, despite being given a map of the campus and all the various buildings. I’m late for my advanced physics class and have American Government next, which will be … interesting.
Considering I’ve spent all of my high school years in England, I’ve not learned anything about American history or government since the sixth grade. What do I know about American anything?
I decide to skip the rest of physics and wander around the campus, referring to the map on my phone that’s from the school website, trying to get my bearings. I find my locker and test the combination lock on it, opening it on the first try. I find the history building and linger outside of it, smiling at a group of girls who go walking past, their gazes curious and their laughter obvious after they pass me.
They couldn’t be laughing about me. They don’t even know me.
Finally, the bell rings—a literal bell in a tower that’s in the main building. The school is so old, and all the classroom doors swing open, the hall immediately filling with a swarm of students clad in identical blue, green and white. Despite wearing the required uniform, they all put their own mark on it. Some of the girls wear their skirts much shorter, the hems dancing upon their thighs. While other girls don’t mess with their skirts at all, the heavy, pleated wool ending at their knees.
Without thought, I reach underneath my jacket and readjust the waistband of my skirt, rolling it higher before I yank my white shirt out a little to cover the flip of my skirt’s waistband. I remove my jacket next, mentally noting how many girls aren’t wearing theirs, and shove it in my book bag.
I’m desperate to fit in. I don’t want to stand out. I don’t even want anyone to know I’m a Lancaster, but that’s impossible to hide. People will recognize me, and my parents wouldn’t let me enroll under a different last name, though I tried. I asked. Begged. Pleaded, even.
They wouldn’t budge. Everyone should know who you are, my father insisted, pride in his voice. Always proud of me, even when I don’t want him to be. Sometimes I wish they wouldn’t even acknowledge I exist. I preferred to keep an entire ocean between us, living on a different continent rather than deal with them.
God, my relationship with my parents is so complicated.
Irritated by my thoughts, and by the bulk in my bag now thanks to the jacket, I shove the bag behind my arm and enter my American Government class, choosing a seat in the middle of the room, in the middle row. The desks fill up quickly with loud, chattering students, one after the other, all of them seeming to know each other. I glance around, offering a smile to a boy who watches me with obvious interest.
I turn away from him, not wanting to stare. I think of my old friends, and what they might think about this boy. Simone would always talk of boys as objects that she only used for sex. Is he fuckable or not?
That was always her question when considering a boy, and it would embarrass me to no end. I never looked at a boy and wondered if he was fuckable. I wasn’t interested. Not like that. When it came to the many boys I met when I was in London, I never actually wanted any of them.
Until him.
Too bad he already graduated from Lancaster. It wouldn’t be so bad, running into West whatever his last name is. At least I’d know someone, even if it might end up being awkward between us.
A stolen night in Paris isn’t a normal memory to share with someone, I’m sure, but it’s mine.
Ours.
And it’s probably best that it stays in Paris. Where it belongs.
In the past.
“You’re new,” the boy finally says, pulling me from my thoughts.
I turn to find him smiling at me, and I smile in return. “I am.”
“I’m Brent.”
“Carolina.” My smile grows.
His fades. “Wait a minute. You’re Carolina Lancaster?”
“Yes.” I let my smile drop, concerned by the panicked look on his face. How did he know? “Have we met before?”
“Not personally, but I’ve heard all about you.” He smothers the chuckle that leaks from his mouth with his hand, his fingers denting into his lips.
His words, how he says them, make me uneasy. “What? From who?”
Brent’s gaze goes to the back of the room, zeroing in on the open doorway. “You’ll see.”
The only person I know who went to this wretched school is my own family and …
The boy in Paris.
Could he have told his friends about us? About me? I thought what we shared that night was private. Secret. I even told him that. I told him so many things. Confessions I would’ve never made to anyone else.
The possibility that he went and spilled all of my secrets to his friends leaves me feeling terrified. More than that, it hurts.
I turn toward the door, my lips slowly parting when I see who enters the room at that exact moment, clad in the Lancaster uniform minus the jacket, handsome as I remember.
Maybe even more so.
My heart drops, splintering into a thousand pieces, and I turn away from the door as quickly as possible, hoping he doesn’t notice me. Though I know my hopes are futile.
He’s here, the little liar.
West.
