“HOW’S SCHOOL, DARLING?”
I sigh into the phone, not bothering to hide my exasperation from my father. He should know exactly how I’m feeling about being here, because it’s awful. And maybe if I suck up to him enough, he’ll let me come home. Or even better …
Let me go back to London.
“It’s terrible.”
He chuckles. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“Oh, I will,” I say, my voice strong, running right over his laughter. Like I’m a big joke—that hurts, not that I’ll ever admit it. “The classes are boring, the teachers are terrible, and my studio still isn’t ready.”
“I heard from Matthews myself this morning. He mentioned that the two of you—spoke, and that you weren’t happy construction is taking so long.”
“I’m not happy at all.” Matthews and I didn’t “speak.” It was more like I barged into his office and yelled at him, while he just sat there and took it. “I’ve been here for almost three weeks, and it’s still not done. I was told it would be ready within a week of my arrival.”
“Matthews can’t control the supply chain, darling. It’s not his fault that some items aren’t available. Just—be patient.”
“That’s not my best trait,” I mutter.
He starts to chuckle again, which is just beyond infuriating. “It’s not a strong trait among any of us Lancasters. We want what we want and we want it now.”
“I’m glad someone understands.” I flop onto my bed, staring at the ceiling while I clutch my phone tightly in my hand. “I’m just so homesick.”
“You should come visit me at my apartment this weekend,” he suggests.
“I’m homesick for London,” I correct, wincing when I hear the catch in his breath, as if my words might’ve hurt him.
Which they might have. He has to understand, I have no real reason to be homesick for his apartment. I’ve spent very little time there. After our parents’ divorce, I left for London to escape the tension and the fighting and the struggle between my parents as they tried to lay claim to their children. Mother snagged up Sylvie as hers. Father reluctantly chose Whit, but only by default, since Whit was thoroughly disgusted by our mother’s antics during that time.
Funny how my brother stood by our father’s side while he was a cheating, thoughtless bastard. Men. I will never understand the way they think.
“You know how your mother and I feel about you being in London.” Father’s voice shifts into stern mode. “You took your dancing so seriously. It wasn’t fun anymore. The fun you sought was more on the dangerous side, and we were concerned with your safety. That’s why you’re here. Back home, where you belong for one last year. Once you graduate high school, you can do whatever you want. If that means returning to London or maybe heading somewhere else, that’s fine. But until then, you are stuck here. With us.”
I’ve heard it before from him, countless times. I’m constantly trying to get him to cave, to give into my demands and let me return to my dance school, but he won’t budge.
It’s so frustrating, but I’m not giving up. I can’t.
My entire body feels tight, like it hasn’t received the proper exercise it needs, which it hasn’t. I’ve been running the last week or so. In the late afternoon, when the football team is out on the field practicing. I jog the track, ignoring the catcalls and lewd remarks, withstanding their attention because I need the exercise and I don’t necessarily feel safe jogging out on the beach. It’s so far.
I suppose I can handle a few teenaged boys yelling at me.
I don’t have many friends yet. Mercedes still speaks to me, and even includes me at their table in the dining hall during lunch, but most of the time, I leave the moment West shows up. Or sometimes I don’t sit with them at all, much preferring to sit outside and enjoy the still warm weather. The gentle breeze cooling my lurid thoughts.
All of them filled with the many ways I could possibly destroy Weston Fontaine. Of the champagne and wine Fontaines, who originally descend from France. My father knows about West’s family because, of course, I asked, as casually as I could.
How pathetic I must’ve looked to West, being incredibly rude toward him while pretending to be French. I’m fluent, but so is he. I’m positive he understood every single word I said, and most of them in reference to him weren’t kind.
God, I was such a bitch that night. I don’t regret my behavior toward him any longer though. He’s just as mean, just as cold now as I was then. It’s almost as if he seduced me on purpose, but for what reason? To brag to everyone at school? His closest friends act like they know something happened between us, which is infuriating. How much did he tell them? What sort of personal details do his friends know about me? And how could he betray me like that? Besides the fact that he lied, telling me he’d already graduated.
I don’t understand him. Worse, I cannot stand him. He’s a horrible human being.
A gorgeous, horrible human being.
“I hate this school,” I murmur into the phone, my throat suddenly thick with tears. I close my eyes, fighting the overwhelming sense of dread threatening to wash over me and I brace myself for the inevitable, it’s all going to be okay, remarks from my father.
“Give it a little more time,” he says. “You’ll eventually make friends.”
“They all hate me.” Oh, I sound pathetic.
I think about Mercedes and her shallow offer of friendship. It’s mostly her asking me questions about my family or her droning on about how rich hers is. They got their money in tech. Her dad is an app developer. That’s so nouveau riche, I don’t know why anyone at this Godforsaken school would give her the time of day. She even admitted to me her mother named her Mercedes because it’s her favorite car brand, which is just … tacky.
I can’t stop thinking about West warning me that she talks shit about me when I’m not around. I know I should expect that sort of behavior from someone like her, but it still hurts.
I come back to the States and I’ve turned soft, allowing a known mean girl to get under my skin. In London, I didn’t care what anyone said about me. I just wanted to be on top. The only dancer Madame truly believed in.
“Or they want me as part of their circle because of my last name,” I continue. “They don’t even try to get to know me.”
“You should try and get to know them instead,” he suggests.
“None of them talk to me like that. It’s all so … fake.”
He’s quiet for a moment and I press my lips together, scared a sob might burst out of me. Why am I sad? Why does having a friend matter to me? I’ve never felt so alone. Even when I was in London, I had people surrounding me, pretending to be my friend. Some of them might’ve actually liked me, but it’s doubtful.
There’s not much to like about me.
I swallow the near-sob down, willing my body to cooperate. Something I’ve always been able to do when I’m dancing. If I think it, I become it.
You won’t cry. You’re stronger than that. You will not cry.
The ache in my throat slowly eases and when I open my eyes, they’re not blurred with tears anymore.
“Try your best to make new friends. Sometimes you can be rather … unapproachable, you know,” my father so graciously reminds me.
Right. Unapproachable. That’s a kind way of being called cold. Closed-off. Distant.
I don’t know why I’m that way. Sometimes I try to act open and warm and willing to make friends, but it’s so hard.
It’s not me. And I wish someone would just accept me for who I am.
“I’ll try,” I tell him.
“I made lifelong friends while I attended Lancaster Prep. Men and women I still speak with on occasion.” He chuckles. “Most of them are Facebook friends, but that still counts, right?”
There’s no point in arguing with him that no, that doesn’t count, because he’ll deny it.
“I have to go. I’ll talk to you later?”
“Call me whenever you want, okay? If you’re sad, if you’re lonely. I’m here for you, sweetheart. I am.”
“Thank you, Dad.” He likes it when I call him Dad. Much less formal than Father, which is how Whit and Sylvie always refer to him.
“Anytime. Love you.”
I end the call without saying I love him too, which also makes me uncomfortable. Saying those words out loud.
Affection, physical or verbal, makes me squeamish. My parents weren’t particularly demonstrative growing up, and once I went away to dance school, I had no one giving me any physical affection. I got so used to it that now, I’m always uncomfortable when someone tries to touch me. I can tolerate it when I’m dancing, but only when absolutely necessary. I’m not one to dance with a partner. I’ve always preferred to perform solo. When I did dance with a partner, I’d tense up every single time they put their hands on my waist. My back. My arms.
I shiver just thinking about it.
That’s why it’s so shocking that I let West touch me in Paris. That I let West put his fingers inside my body while he kissed me and gave me an orgasm. Afterward, I told Gideon what happened and he flat out didn’t believe me, no matter how hard I tried to convince him. He called me a liar.
Instead of trying to prove myself, I let it go. Like I usually do.
I always let things go. Sweep them under the rug. Pretend they didn’t happen.
It’s just my thing.
It’s nothing personal.
IT’S lunch time and I’ve just joined my usual group in the dining hall, sitting next to Mercedes and listening to her drone on and on with the boys. I don’t think she even cares which one is paying attention to her. She just wants one of them to listen, and to care. And maybe even ask her out.
So far, none of them have. And it’s making her frustrated. I only know this because she tells me. I’ve learned since my encounter with West a few weeks ago that I shouldn’t say anything to this girl, so I don’t. She can talk all the shit she wants, but I refuse to give her any ammunition to use against me later.
I really need to find new friends, but everyone else is either afraid to approach me or simply not interested.
“West, we’ve been flirting for the past two years,” she starts out the moment West arrives at the table. On the opposite side of where I’m sitting, I might add.
How we continue to coexist in the same circle, I’m not quite sure.
“Three,” he corrects her, his voice stern.
I keep my gaze focused on my salad, which I’ve eaten every single day for lunch since I’ve arrived here.
God, I’m sick of salad.
“Oh yes, three years.” Mercedes giggles, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I was just wondering if you were ever going to work up the nerve to finally ask me out.”
The entire table goes silent and I lift my head, gauging everyone’s reactions. Mercedes appears to be holding her breath. Marcy and Samantha are wide-eyed, their mouths hanging open. The guys are all nudging each other and whispering amongst themselves, TJ even saying loud enough for us to hear, “Girl’s got some balls.”
West is quiet, his perfect lips quirked up in the faintest smirk. I watch him, my own breath lodged in my throat, my heart beating erratically.
He better say no. He absolutely, one hundred percent should turn her down.
“Well?” Mercedes prompts when West takes too long to answer.
His gaze slides to me, his expression dead serious as he says, “I’d love to ask you out on a date, Mercedes.”
I can’t look away. It’s like I’m watching a train wreck and I can’t stop staring at the bloody carnage. Or as if I’ve walked in on him and Mercedes while they’re having a sexual encounter and can only watch in absolute horror as he fucks her slowly, his gaze never straying from mine the entire time.
It’s the worst feeling in the entire world.
“Oh yay! Shall we go out to dinner Friday?”
“Make it Saturday and you’ve got yourself a date.” He’s still watching me and even Mercedes’ gaze flickers to mine, her brows drawing together in confusion. I finally duck my head, staring at the pile of lettuce and vegetables on my plate, wishing I could hurl it at someone.
At West and his perfectly handsome, perfectly awful face.
“Sounds amazing. Oh my God, this will be so much fun!” She claps her hands together, West’s focus already on someone else. His friends, who waste no time giving him grief. Then, within minutes, all of them rise to their feet, West pausing at Mercedes’ chair so he can reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, murmuring, “Can’t wait till Saturday.”
Then they’re gone.
Mercedes literally squeals like she just won a billion dollars, bouncing in her seat. “I cannot believe that just happened!”
“I can’t believe you just asked him out on a date and he agreed,” Marcy says wryly.
Mercedes frowns, her laughter gone just like that. “What, you think it’s weird that West would be interested in me?”
“No, it’s not that. It just—he didn’t even protest. He agreed and now you’re going out with him.” Marcy shrugs, obviously uncomfortable.
“I was tired of wasting my time with him,” Mercedes says, waving her fingers in the air in a nonchalant gesture. “I’ve been waiting for him to make a move for years. I finally decided to make a move instead.”
“Good for you,” Samantha says. She’s Mercedes’ little cheerleader, always there to openly support her friend, no matter what. Even if Mercedes treats her like shit, which she does.
Often.
“Do you think it was a mistake, Carolina?”
I lift my head, my gaze meeting Mercedes’ triumphant one. “What was a mistake?”
“Me pushing West to ask me out. Was that a mistake?” Her eyes are wide, her expression one of total innocence.
But I see a glimmer of something conniving in her gaze. Like she knows I hate that she’s going on a date with West this Saturday, which I do.
I hate it with my whole being.
“No. Not at all.” I shake my head, my smile polite. “I mean, it’s not something I would do.” I rest my hand to my chest. “But it looks like it worked for you, so …”
I let my voice drift and I offer up a little shrug.
The scowl on her face is obvious. She doesn’t like my answer, but is she going to call me out for it?
“Well, at least I have a boy interested in me, right? Unlike you.” Mercedes rises to her feet, grabbing her tray. She didn’t even touch her lunch yet. “Come on, Marcy. Sam. I need to go to the bathroom.”
She doesn’t say my name. Doesn’t even look in my direction when they all leave me alone at the table, looking like a loser. I glance around the dining hall, noting the pitying looks on some of the other students’ faces. It feels like everyone is watching me. Like they all witnessed the faux pas that just occurred and they feel sorry for me.
Frustrated, I push away from the table, leaving my salad behind as I flee the dining hall. I head for the administration building, bursting through the door, relief flooding me when I notice Vivian, the secretary, isn’t at her desk. She must be on her lunch break.
Perfect.
Noting that Headmaster Matthews’ door is cracked open, I approach it carefully, peeking inside to see he’s sitting at his desk, staring at his phone while he munches on a sandwich. He must sense my presence because he lifts his head, his shocked gaze meeting mine.
“Carolina. I wasn’t expecting you.”
I feel stupid for just showing up, but I didn’t know what else to do. “I can come back later. I don’t mean to interrupt your lunch.”
“No, come in. I was just scrolling social media.” He waves his hand at me and I enter his office, glancing around the messy space. He really needs someone to come in here and organize it. “Is there something you wanted to talk about?”
“I hate it here,” I blurt, wringing my hands together. I might’ve come in here to put on an act that I’m miserable at this stupid school and I want to leave, but I really do hate it here.
I really am miserable.
“Sit down.” He points at one of the chairs in front of his desk and I settle in, stretching my skirt out over my legs, hating how my knee bounces, a familiar signal that I’m nervous. “Why do you hate it here?”
“Everyone is mean. They all have their cliques and it’s hard to make friends.” I press my lips together, hating how whiny I sound, but I can’t help it. “The academics are lacking too,” I add, though it sounds lame.
“You think our teaching staff is lacking?” Matthews pulls out a pen and starts writing on his little notepad.
Not really, but I’m feeling mean. “They lack inspiration more than anything else.”
His gaze lifts to mine. “We have some of the finest staff in the country, though I’m sure they’re not on the level of what you experienced while in England.”
I shrug, feeling dumb that I came into his office to have a hissy fit. If he only knew the academic teachers at the dance schools I attended over the years put in the bare minimum in order for us to pass our classes. We didn’t receive the best academic education. Our dance instructors, though?
Some of the best in the world.
He rests his arms on top of his desk, clutching his hands in front of him, a serene expression on his face. “I know it’s been an adjustment for you, attending Lancaster.”
I say nothing, but I can feel the sulky expression on my face. I’m pouting. Upset with myself and my surroundings. Wishing more than anything that my life could return to normal.
The normal I know. The normal I’m comfortable with.
“And I know you’re upset your studio isn’t up and running yet, but I have good news.” His smile is faint. “It will be completed by the end of the week.”
Hope makes my heart swell. “Really?”
“Yes. It’s taken far longer than projected, and for that, I apologize. I understand how important dance is to you, and that you want to maintain your skills while you’re attending school here.”
I’d need instructors and rigorous training to maintain my skills, but that’s impossible. I swear I can feel my muscles slowly turning into mush with every day that passes at this Godforsaken place.
“I wish I was back in London,” I murmur, unable to help myself. “I never wanted to come here.”
Headmaster Matthews tilts his head, contemplating me for a moment. “May I make a suggestion, Carolina?”
I brace myself, not sure if I want to hear what he has to say. “Okay.”
“You can either make yourself miserable while you’re here and wish to be somewhere else, or you can reconcile with yourself and realize that you’re here and there’s nothing you can do to change it, so you may as well make the best of it.”
His vaguely inspirational words, while accurate, are also annoying. “Sometimes pitching a fit gets you what you want in life.”
“And sometimes, it makes you look like nothing but a spoiled little brat.” His smile never falters and I’m taken aback by the stern edge to his voice. “I’ve been in near constant contact with your father, Carolina. I report to him what’s going on every single day. I don’t think throwing a fit—or throwing me under the bus, so to speak—would work in your favor.”
I blink at him, startled by his tone. The words he’s saying. Of course, he’s in daily contact with my father. I’m not surprised. Daddy did always love to keep tabs on me.
Rising to my feet, I huff out a breath. “Clearly talking to you won’t get me anywhere.”
“It did get you the good news that your studio is almost finished,” he reminds me.
“Only after being delayed for the last three weeks,” I retort.
“Two and a half,” he corrects.
“Whatever.” I’m about to leave his office when he calls my name and I pause, glancing at him from over my shoulder.
“Be careful who you spend your free time with,” he says, like a warning.
Or maybe a threat.
When I frown, he continues.
“Mercedes is a user.”
“I know.”
His eyes widen slightly at my admission. “And West Fontaine is …”
Matthews goes quiet, my irritation growing. “He’s what?”
“Not kind.”
My frown deepens. “What do you mean?”
“If you spend any amount of time around him, you’ll understand.”
“If he’s so terrible, why don’t you do anything to stop him?”
“We never actually catch him breaking school rules.” Matthews shrugs. “But I hear the stories. I know what he’s about. I would advise that you avoid him at all costs.”
“Maybe I could be the one who stops him.” My older brother ran this school with an iron fist. He got people kicked out of school for looking at him wrong, never to be seen again. Whit was ruthless.
“If anyone could stop him, it would be a Lancaster.” His smile is brittle, his tone almost mocking. “Good luck, Carolina.”
