Rumors and Lies at Evermore High Boxset: Three Sweet YA Romances

by Emily Lowry

  Rumors and Lies at Evermore High

  Books 1 - 3 Boxset

  Emily Lowry

  Cover Photography by

  Logan Weaver Via Unsplash

  Cover Design by

  Canva

  Eleventh Avenue Publishing

  Contents

  GET A FREE SHORT STORY

  Chase Jones is my Fake Boyfriend

  Trey Carter is My Rebel Boyfriend

  Dylan Ramirez is My Forbidden Boyfriend

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  About the Author

  Also by Emily Lowry

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  Chase Jones is my Fake Boyfriend

  Rumors and Lies at Evermore High #1

  1

  Abby

  If I had to sum up high school in one word, I’d pick electric.

  It was the nervous energy flowing through your body as you prepared for the first day back. The spark when the cute boy smiles. The lightning bolt of a first kiss, the thunderstorm of falling in love, the rain-swept field that follows a breakup.

  At least, that’s how a high school romance was supposed to feel.

  Not that I would know. I could only imagine what everyone else’s high school experience must be like. You know, the jocks, the cheerleaders, the popular kids and homecoming queens and class clowns and student body presidents. Everyone. Well, everyone but me.

  I’d held on to that energy, that electricity, all summer. But instead of going out and having all the clichéd high school experiences the rest of my grade were having before their junior year, I’d poured my entire summer into a single story for our school newspaper, The Panther Pinnacle. It was a perfect piece of investigative journalism. The kind of hard-hitting exposé my heroes — Minna Lewinson and Diane Sawyer — would be proud of.

  I put the story in a binder and snapped the clips closed. The paper was perfect. It had to be perfect. I was bringing it to my journalism prof first thing this morning, as proof that I had what it took to be the investigative reporter for The Pinnacle this year. I had a perfect plan: I’d hold that position for my junior year, take over as lead editor in my senior year, then after that? NYU. Just like my mom.

  My chosen outfit for my first day back at school was already hanging on the door, freshly washed and neatly ironed. I had picked it out weeks ago. I wanted something that would convey that I was professional, yet approachable. Intellectual, yet worldly. Not that my closet had offered too much to convey all that, and Dad had been too stingy to lend me fifty bucks to buy something new. All in all, I was happy with the plaid, pleated skirt, button-down shirt and loafers I picked out for today’s occasion. I added a tight ponytail and my reading glasses, and voila! — I nailed it. Perfect female journalist with prime lead editor potential.

  I was ready for the first day of my junior year.

  Evermore High was a sprawling campus of brick buildings, athletic fields, flower gardens, fountains, and stunning views of the Rocky Mountains. It was a hive of activity, home to just over two thousand students.

  It was a fairy tale place — but by fairy tale I’m talking Brothers Grimm, not Disney. Cliques reigned over their subjects, rewarding and punishing them with a sense of poetic justice. Rumors spread like a summer fire over a cornfield, and truth? Truth was relative.

  Honestly, I expected better from the kids of our large Denver suburb. Colorado was meant to be a progressive place… but Evermore was like every bad high school movie: finding your clique was your lifeline for a social life.

  Nobody at school even read the Pinnacle, the paper I loved so much and worked so hard on. They didn’t need to. Anything you wanted to know could be found on the school’s notorious — and conveniently anonymous — gossip app, Click.

  I had never been featured on Click, and I knew all too well I never would be. I was one of the Evermore cliqueless — by choice, as I reminded my dad every time he asked why I didn’t go out with friends more. I was happy being invisible, coasting through the hallways unnoticed, gathering the grades and achievements I needed to guarantee I got into NYU. I didn’t want, need, or desire to be at the center of a school scandal. I would leave that to the popular kids, thank you very much.

  I hurried through the throngs of students. The seniors laughed loudly to draw attention, the guys fist bumping each other while the girls smoothed their hair, hoping someone would notice the new styles they got over the summer. A whole new year of possibilities lay ahead. The freshmen congregated in tight packs, their voices hoarse whispers.

  And me?

  I continued to be invisible, the way a good journalist should be. Maybe that’s why I was so obsessed with journalism — I didn’t want to be part of the rumors, but I wanted to know about them. I treated my high school like I was reading it in a book instead of living it.

  The school paper had its own office on the second floor of Building A, which was the Fine Arts Building. The door had textured glass, and when I opened it, the smell of coffee overpowered every other sense. We always had two coffee pots going — either brewing or burning, depending on whether the last one out had remembered to shut them off.

  “Abigail Murrow! Welcome back.” The warm, friendly voice had a thin Nigerian accent and belonged to my favorite teacher, Mr. Adebayo. He was in his fifties and wore a crisp, white dress shirt. As the year went on, that shirt would accumulate coffee stains. By June, the shirt would be more brown than white.

  A senior stood next to Mr. Adebayo, smiling at me.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  It wasn’t just any senior.

  Nicholas Applebee. His hair was casually combed to the side, and he wore thin glasses which framed his face perfectly. He had the charming smile of a morning newscaster. And he was this year’s lead editor of The Pinnacle.

  I smiled back, keeping my lips closed so the butterflies didn’t escape from my stomach. I had worked with Nicholas on the Pinnacle since freshman year, and I still couldn’t get it together when he was around me. He was the weak spot in my perfect plan of keeping all of my thoughts and efforts focused on NYU.

  He poured a cup of coffee and passed me the mug. “Abs! Just the person I was looking for.”

  My heart lurched again. I suspected it would get quite the workout with the time I’d be spending with Nicholas.

  “Great! I was looking for me too!” I stuttered. Uh, no, that wasn’t right. “You. I was looking for you.” I finished, my cheeks flaring.

  I looked at him to see if he had noticed my stutter and blush, but he wasn’t looking at me, he was focused on the binder in my hand. “What’s that, Abby? A story? You can’t possibly have a story ready. We haven’t even gone over this semester’s assignments.”

  I laughed, too loud and too long. I wasn’t sure if he was making a joke or not. Call my laughter a nervous reflex. I passed him the binder. “I did some digging over the summer on the nastiness that goes on behind school board elections. Hard-hitting stuff.”

  He opened the binder and read. His expression faltered. “I see.”

  A lump formed in my throat. I thought he’d be excited that I’d got an early start. Why wasn’t he smiling? I’d
spent all summer on that piece.

  Nicholas glanced at Mr. Adebayo, who nodded, then back to me. “Can we talk?”

  Three words no one ever wants to hear.

  Nicholas led me into the editor’s office and shut the door. Framed articles hung from the wall, the paper yellowed with age. There was a shelf of neatly stacked books in the back corner. Through the closed door, I heard the other members of the school paper chatting, their voices muffled.

  I couldn’t stand the tension.

  “So, what do you think?” I blurted, my hands clammy.

  He drummed his fingers over the paper. “I met with Mr. Adebayo about a week before school started. We talked about you.”

  What? Why? Was that good? Bad?

  The suspense was killing me.

  “You’re a talented writer with great potential.” Nicholas sighed, taking off his glasses and polishing them on his shirt.

  There was a but coming.

  “But your range is narrow. You want to go to NYU, right?”

  He remembered! I nodded, my smile tight and forced. “Like my mom.”

  “They’ll want a portfolio, Abby.”

  “I have one,” I insisted, looking at him strangely. What was coming?

  “And what’s in it?”

  I rattled off a list of investigate reports I’d finished. I had published almost all of them in the Panther Pinnacle over the last couple of years. Why was Nicholas asking? He was the person who reviewed ninety percent of my work. That’s why his opinion mattered so much.

  “All investigative pieces,” he said.

  “That’s what I want to do.” The chair I was sitting in suddenly felt very uncomfortable. “If you want to be an investigative journalist, you investigate. Practice makes perfect.”

  “We have some concerns.” Nicholas said flatly.

  I felt like I was being deflated.

  “Is my writing not good enough?” That couldn’t be it. I was known around school — by those who knew me, at least — as the girl who writes. It was practically my entire identity.

  To my surprise, Nicholas laughed. “You’re the best writer at the Pinnacle, Abby. Myself included. It’s your range that’s concerning. You’ve got the talent to get into NYU, but when they ask for a portfolio, Mr. Adebayo says they’ll want to see a range of different types of journalism. Which is why we’ve pulled you off investigative journalism for the semester.”

  My brain short-circuited. I was — in their words — the best writer they had. I loved investigative journalism. And they were pulling me off of it? All of my hopes and dreams for my junior year felt like they were running through my hands, and I could not catch them.

  I almost didn’t dare ask the next question that came to my mind. “What are you moving me to?”

  “The social feature.”

  “THE SOCIAL FEATURE?” I screeched.

  Imagine a wrecking ball crashing through a china shop and you’ll know how I felt. My mouth was suddenly dry. The social feature was — in my opinion — the lamest, fluffiest part of the school paper. It was basically a glorified gossip column, for goodness sake! Nothing I cared about. And nothing like the hard-hitting investigative journalism that would get me into NYU.

  Nicholas clasped his hands together, excited. “I pitched it to Mr. Adebayo this morning. I want a full feature on the social life of a student at Evermore. What’s it like to go to parties? Where do people go on dates? How does one navigate interpersonal relationships? What about dealing with all the rumors and lies that come with being part of the social fabric of our high school? It will be an amazing feature, and we hope we will significantly increase our readership with it!”

  I sighed. He was right about nobody reading the paper at school. But if people wanted gossip, they wouldn’t come to the paper, they’d open Click and check who was on blast. Plus, I was hardly the best person to write a gossip column.

  “Shouldn’t Payton do that?” Payton was one of the other juniors working at the paper. Pretty, relatively popular, and the daughter of the head football coach, Payton Clarence was much more intertwined with the Evermore ‘social fabric’ than I’d ever be.

  “She wanted to do sports again this year,” Nicholas said. Of course she did, I thought flatly. If there was ever a way to get close to the football players, it was as our sports reporter. It’s the sort of perk that makes people like Payton work at the paper. I couldn’t deny how bitter my thoughts were.

  Nicholas looked at me, his eyes bright with excitement. “And also, I think you’ll write a marvelous story. I believe in you. Do well here, and you’ll be the senior editor next year.” He grinned. “So, what do you say? Is my all-star reporter ready to dive in?”

  Panic and butterflies battled in my chest as my thoughts also fought for space in my mind: He came up with the idea and assigned it to me because he thought it would be better for my future. But I had never even been to a high school party. He believed in me. Did anyone else? He thought I was “his” all-star.

  “How could I say no?” I said weakly.

  “Great!” Nicholas looked at me approvingly, his hazel eyes warm.

  I tried to look enthusiastic, but inside, my brain was screaming at me.

  There was one teeny tiny little problem: how was I supposed to write the social feature when I didn’t have a social life?

  2

  Chase

  Walking through the Fine Arts Building of the Evermore campus, I was as out of place as a bull in a museum. Colorful abstract paintings hung from the walls, tiny bronze plaques beneath each one naming the artist and the painting.

  Tides of Animal.

  Broken Drop Drip.

  The Ease of Our Sorrows and the Joy in Our Pains.

  I can’t say I understood any of them. Art had never really been my thing.

  I passed an open door along the hallways. Inside, the drama club had set up black stools in a semi-circle. They were wearing masks, acting out some weird play, and as I passed by, they all craned their necks towards me. It was like something out of a horror movie. I shuddered, almost laughing at myself. The starting quarterback, fearless when going against a three-hundred-pound sasquatch that wanted to tackle me, nervous around dainty drama club geeks wearing masks. If anyone on the team found out I also couldn’t sit through a horror movie, I’d never hear the end.

  I focused on my mission, feeling excited. Savannah, the girl I was sort-of dating, spent almost all of her time in the Fine Arts building. We’d only been seeing each other for the last three weeks, a perfect end to the summer holidays, but somehow, we were already splashed all over Click. Even during summer vacation, Evermore students had their way of keeping the rumor mill running. Gossip was like oxygen at Evermore, everyone breathed it in.

  Savannah was a ballet dancer, and a good one at that. Last week, I picked her up from her ballet studio downtown. I was there early enough to watch the end of practice. Watching her dance was spellbinding. Her slim, pale body stretched gracefully into impossible positions. Her dedication and focus reminded me of my own game on the football field, striving for nothing short of perfection in every move I made.

  It helped that Savannah was smoking hot, with baby blue eyes and long red hair, coupled with a svelte dancer’s body. I had to admit, for the first time in what seemed like forever, I was totally taken with a girl.

  I hadn’t seen her at all yet this morning during our first day back at Evermore. It was my junior year, her senior one, so we shared no classes. However, during morning break, she’d sent me a text telling me to come find her. She wanted to talk to me about our next date.

  I had already planned it out. She was a huge animal lover, so I’d spent my very meager pay check on tickets to the zoo. But not just any tickets — the zoo’s equivalent of a backstage pass. We’d get to meet the zookeepers and see how things worked behind the scenes. We’d also get to feed and interact with the less dangerous animals. She would love it.

  Savannah was sweet and quiet �
�� not my usual type. But after breaking up with Madison Albright last year and finding myself subsequently hacked apart on her hugely popular Click page, my attraction to the bouncy, peppy cheerleader type — which honestly, was so boringly predictable when you thought about it — went out the window.

  As I navigated the halls, I heard a choir warming up and the distant sound of the concert band tuning their instruments. I took off my letterman jacket, rolled it, and carried it under my arm like a football. It was warm out anyway, and always warmer still in the Fine Arts building than any of the other buildings on campus. Or maybe I was just overheating because I was nervous. Why was I nervous?

  The dance studio was at the back of the building. Savannah stood outside, already finished with practice, and dressed in black tights and a wrap sweater. She didn’t smile when I approached. That was okay, she probably had a lot on her mind with it being the first day of school.

  “How’s your first day back going?” I asked. I wished I thought of something cooler to say. Something smooth.

  “Okay,” she said. “Come in.”

  Savannah led me into the dance studio. It was painted white and there was a ballet bar at one end. Bay windows faced the mountains and let in plenty of natural light. I was struck by how high the ceiling was. You could toss a decent pass in here.

  “I’ve never been in here before,” I said. “It’s nice.”

  “Not much of a dancer?” Savannah laughed gently.

  “Coach actually says I should take it. Says it’ll keep my feet quick, help me move around the pocket.”