My High School Royal Boyfriend: A Sweet YA Secret Identity Romance (Boyfriend Series (River Valley High) Book 5)

by Kylie Key

  The library stayed open after school and I wandered over, thinking I’d make a start on some homework and check out the availability of extra-curricular activities. I was willing to try anything that Bella wasn’t in. Plus, as much as I loved Margaret and Tony, it was daunting to think of going back to their little house and spending the whole evening with them, with nothing much to do.

  The social life I’d so enjoyed—shopping, cafes and ice cream parlors, drives, hanging with friends—were now a thing of the past. Reality hit that I was close to living the life of a cloistered nun.

  As I pulled open the library door, my reflection startled me. It was hard to associate myself as being that girl. Though surely if I could barely recognize myself, no one else would. I dropped my backpack on an empty chair, now heavier than it had been that morning, and perused the bookshelves. A boy who I’m sure had been in my history class was working at the counter.

  I handed him the two books I’d selected, and he asked for my student id card.

  “How do you get a job in the library?” I asked.

  “Uh, you ask Miss Clark.” He nodded behind him to a lady sitting at a desk. “Are you new?”

  “Yeah, I just moved here. I’m living with my Great Aunt and Uncle.” It seemed to roll off the tongue more easily the second time, though the boy didn’t seem interested.

  “They’re due back in two weeks, but you can get an extension if you need it.” He pushed the books back in my direction.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Hey, is there a list of clubs?”

  “You can look online,” he said. Funny, I was used to garnering attention, plenty of it from boys, but I could barely get a glance from this acne-faced boy. It was a sobering thought how perceptions were such a factor in how people communicated with you. I slunk back to my seat. At one table there were kids playing chess, at another there was a card game going on. Maybe getting involved in a club was what I needed.

  I pulled my laptop out of my bag, intending to search the school website. However, to get to it, I had to unpack my yellow lunchbox, beanie and gloves, and a multitude of papers. (Margaret insisted it could get cold down in The Flats, as if the weather was different on the other side of the river).

  In an attempt to be as quiet as possible, the clutter that was on my lap started to slide. Before I could stop it, papers fell to the floor, followed by the hat, followed by my lunchbox with a startling crash. The lid opened and my uneaten apple rolled across the floor. Margaret had packed what I would call an old school lunch, a PB & J sandwich, a granola bar, an apple, a box of chocolate milk and a piece of homemade brownie. I’d only eaten the granola bar and brownie. The rest I meant to hide before I got home.

  “Oh. Oh,” I cried, placing my laptop on the desk, aware that heads had turned. Crawling across to retrieve my apple, a hand reached it before I did.

  Alex Lord was on his knees, gathering up my mess.

  “Thanks,” I said as he handed each item to me, a total of four thanks.

  “Someone didn’t eat their lunch,” he said.

  It took me a moment to interpret his accent. “Uh, I wasn’t very hungry,” I said.

  “You didn’t meet us in the cafeteria?” He’d risen into a squat, the fabric of his jeans taut over his legs, his knees bursting through the holes having an odd effect on me. Blair Pennington didn’t blush, but it seemed Blair with an E did.

  “Uh,” I retreated a step and stood up, “uh, I don’t remember being asked. I think the invite was only for you.”

  “Did you know Rebecca was crowned Homecoming Queen and selected Josh to be her Homecoming King?” he said, exaggerating his accent with a dry, sarcastic tone.

  I laughed, and the apple bounced out of my clutches again. Alex turned to swoop it up, my eyes glued to his body. Wow, jeans never looked so good. Why did most boys like to wear them hanging low on their hips? Molded to the butt was a much better look.

  “You didn’t miss anything,” he said, holding the apple out. His eyes weren’t looking at it though, they were focused intently on me, and I had three sudden, terrifying thoughts:

  He had recognized me—absolutely ludicrous, because he didn’t know me in my previous life.

  I had something in, on or under my nose.

  My zit had doubled in size at some point during the day.

  I took the apple, and discreetly brushed my hand across my face, hopefully removing whatever he was staring at. Blair P never had that problem because she checked her face in the mirror every two minutes; Blair with an E was too afraid to see her own reflection.

  “Uh, so what are you doing in the library?” I asked, frantically jamming everything into my backpack.

  “I was looking for you,” he said. “I wanted to say I’m sorry about your mother.” A terrifying thought burst into my mind—What had happened to Mom, was she all right?—“I hope she’s going to be okay.”

  For a moment I forgot to breathe, as my brain recalibrated and I remembered my story.

  “Oh. That’s so sweet of you,” I said, zipping up my bag. We’d overlooked that detail of what ‘illness’ my ‘mother’ suffered from. Was cancer too devastating? Probably better to be vague. “She will be, thank you.” Best to change the subject quickly. “So, how about you? How did you end up in River Valley?” I pushed my bag onto the table, allowing him to sit next to me.

  Alex chuckled half-heartedly. “Yeah, not sure really.” He scratched his chin. “Things just kind of happened and...here I am.”

  “You wanted to experience life in small town America?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, with forced enthusiasm. There had been a few foreign students at Covington Prep, most of them staying in the boarding school. They came from Japan and China and Brazil mainly. But there were also a few who came for a semester and stayed with local host families. At present there was a Swedish girl called Johanna.

  “So, have you found many differences from your school back home?”

  “It’s only been a day.”

  “I guess,” I said, and mentally told myself to stop asking so many questions. Blair with an E was a quiet, unassuming student who kept to herself. She wasn’t loud and extroverted like her alter-ego.

  “Uniforms,” he said, slouching back in the seat and crossing his ankles. He’d tied his laces since this morning. “We wear uniforms back home.”

  “Oh, we do too—” I brought myself to an abrupt halt. “I mean, some of our schools do. Mainly private ones.” Silly me. I couldn’t go making errors on my first day.

  “And what’s with that jacket Josh was wearing?”

  “His letterman jacket? You don’t have them?” Alex shook his head. “If you make the varsity team you usually get one.”

  “Varsity team?”

  “Like the top football or baseball or soccer team.”

  “Soccer? You mean football?”

  “No, soccer,” I said, “You know, you kick a round ball into a net.” It seemed weird that he didn’t know the sport. Even me, a non-sporty person knew about it.

  “Uh, that’s football,” Alex said.

  “No, football is an oval ball and you score touchdowns and kick the ball over some tall posts.”

  “Nope, that’s American football.”

  “Well, yeah,” I said pointedly, “we’re in America, so of course it’s American football.”

  “I’m just saying that soccer is really called football.”

  “No! More like football is really called soccer,” I contradicted, surprised that I was getting heated over an argument about sports.

  “Ha ha,” Alex said, and he smiled, making my heart flutter. “Guess we can agree that we’re different.”

  The warmth in my cheeks indicated that color was flooding my skin. I’d blushed twice in one day—maybe the air this side of the bridge was different.

  I touched my glasses, convinced my face was an exact match to my pink sweater.

  “So, where are you from?” I asked, shifting my laptop, “Engla
nd?”

  “Yeah. Can’t you guess?”

  “Can’t you guess.” I mimicked his pronunciation, making a long sounding A on the word, the way he did, all prim and proper.

  “Somebody already called me out for that. Also darn-ce, dan-ce, charn-ce, chan-ce.”

  “Tomay-to, tomar-to,” I added.

  He huffed out a laugh, like he was over it already.

  “Sorry,” I said, “Guess we’re easily amused in River Valley.”

  Alex frowned. “I thought you just moved here.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said quickly, “I have, but I mean I’ve visited my aunt,” I corrected myself, “my great aunt heaps of times. And I come from a small, a smallish town too.” I drew in a deep breath. Wow, I had to be careful. It would be so easy to slip up. “So, are you from London?”

  “No,” he said, quite bluntly. Then softer, “Not London.”

  “Smaller?”

  “Smaller.”

  For whatever reason, he didn’t seem to want to elaborate, and I’d almost blown my cover twice in one day so I didn’t push. I needed to step back and distance myself from the exchange student from England. As cute as he was, he was a distraction that I couldn’t afford. I had to keep my wits about me. My charade depended on it. Who was I kidding? Alex was hardly going to be interested in me. He’d only talked to me because he didn’t know anyone else.

  And, as if he was mirroring my exact thoughts, he said, “Actually, I should go.” He pulled his legs in, making the denim tight, his knees poking through the rips. Gah...why were his knees making my knees weak?

  “Do you take the bus?” I asked, glancing to the clock that was situated above the counter. I had a thirty minute wait for mine.

  “Um, no,” he said, “I’m getting a ride.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Sure?” he repeated, frowning like he was confused by my response.

  I frowned back, then nodded, then offered a smile and a tentative, “I might see you tomorrow?”

  He grinned, his eyebrows lifting. “Sure,” he said, attempting to copy my accent.

  Who knows why my heart did another flip flop, or why my cheeks were burning—again. Blair P had never been shy around boys.

  I’d dated a lot, but had only had one real boyfriend, Ryan Jameson. We’d lasted a period of three months and four days, not that I’d been counting. Okay, I had. It had been a giddy, head-over-heels, whirlwind romance which had ended when he admitted that he was intimidated by me, well, not exactly me, but the whole Whittaker Empire thing. It was stressful and overwhelming dating a billionaire, he’d said.

  I’d tried to refute that I was the billionaire, I was just me, Blair, a girl.

  But he said I wasn’t. My brand new Mercedes car, my family’s mansion, our private jet and holiday home by the lake—all scary and formidable, even to Ryan whose parents owned a popular pizza restaurant in Covington. My family’s reputation hung over me, our status and wealth seemingly a disadvantage to me. It made me wonder how many of those boys who took me on one date and never called back, held the same opinion.

  For that reason I’d decided senior year was to be about me and my friends, many of whom I’d attended school with since kindergarten—Ginny, Mikayla, Annabelle, Deveney were my core bunch of girls and yeah, we could be loud and dramatic, and we partied and gossiped and shopped and had fun, but that’s what rich girls from Covington did. It’s what was expected of us.

  Yet, somehow Ginny, Mikayla, Annabelle and Deveney were living that dream life while I had ended up on the other side of town, living in disguise, desperately trying to remain anonymous.

  Yeah, my life had mystifyingly been taken from me, like some cruel prank gone horribly wrong. With the speed at which things had happened, I hadn’t had a chance to wallow in self-pity or to analyze my downfall.

  But here I was, sitting alone in the library after school, heart-breakingly aware of how isolated I was. From hero to zero, my family’s reputation tarnished, the lowest of lows. I had severe doubts that Blair Pennington could endure this until graduation.

  Chapter 4

  When Margaret and Tony asked about my day, I gushed as if everything had been a blast. I knew they’d be reporting back to Mom every minor detail. As hurt as I was that she hadn’t believed me, I didn’t want Mom feeling any worse than she already did. I knew this whole situation was killing her. It didn’t matter that she was of the prestigious Whittaker family, her daughter had been labeled a common thief and she was having to deal with the backlash. The vicious rumor mill had gone into overdrive that Adele Pennington’s daughter was a despicable person, callous enough to steal from her own school friends. Except that Zara Raymond wasn’t a friend, never had been.

  Funnily enough, other than in the classroom the boarders and day students seldom mixed at Covington Prep. The boarders seemed to have a superior notion that River Valley was a hick town and those of us who actually lived here were inferior. I guess it was exactly the same way we thought of kids from RV High—those who lived across the river were below us. It was a disconcerting revelation.

  From what I knew, Zara Raymond’s family owned several dairy farms throughout the state. The Raymonds weren’t short of money, demonstrated by the fact that she had brought a ten thousand dollar bracelet to school, and she drove around in a sleek white Audi. Queen Bee of the dorms, she apparently ruled with an iron fist.

  But, as I said, our paths rarely crossed at school, which was how we both liked it.

  “So, did I give you enough lunch?” Margaret asked, as the three of us sat in the small living room watching tv, our dinner plates resting on our individual food trays. It was a far cry from the formal dining table Mom insisted we eat at every night, linen napkins and all. Margaret and Tony did things a little more casually.

  “Yes, too much really,” I said, thinking of the apple and sandwich that were squished in the bottom of my bag. “I won’t need so much tomorrow.”

  “Nonsense,” Margaret scoffed. “Young people need to eat, all that energy you’re burning.”

  “How was Peppy today?” I asked. My little dog was curled up next to me, and I’d burst into tears when I arrived home to her sweet little face. Overdramatic, but she was my only friend in the world at this point.

  It sounded like Tony had enjoyed Peppy’s company, taking her out when he went to the shops, and stopping at the park for a walk. She’d adjusted to her new surroundings quickly, and it helped that she was familiar with Margaret.

  Margaret wouldn’t let me help with the dishes or cleaning up; she downright scolded me for attempting to clear the plates. She shooed me out, telling me to make a start on my homework. I took Peppy into my room and opened up my books, but it was impossible to concentrate.

  Thinking of the pain I’d caused Mom and Dad hurt my heart. I didn’t know what was worse—that my parents didn’t believe me, or that I’d managed to mess up all of our lives. And I wondered if Mom was missing me as much as I missed her. Mom could be over the top at times, but she loved being around me and my friends. She’d hang with us when we partied, always happy for my friends to come over, joined in with the dancing and yeah, sometimes she flirted with the boys, but it was all harmless fun. And she was a stickler for making sure everyone got home safely, or had a bed to sleep in if they stayed. Adele Pennington was like the girl who was forever 21. Ageing was not on her agenda, she wore her skirts short and her hair long, and yes, she could afford the Botox and surgery to preserve her youthful looks, so she did.

  As part of the secret identity mission, Mom had said that we mustn’t communicate for the first week. To get our head in the game, it was best if we disassociated ourselves and tried to grasp the new reality. I think it was a polite way of telling me her shame was so great she didn’t want anything to do with me. Dad reiterated that it was a good idea; my exile was real.

  For that reason, I was determined not to grumble about my position. I’d play my part, suck it up, carry on. It’s what Great-grea
t grandfather Peter Whittaker had done after people had laughed at his ice cream dream. Yes, he’d defied the naysayers and haters who said he couldn’t produce a premium ice cream with no food manufacturing background. He’d researched, tried, failed and tried again, eventually coming up with his winning 18% buttermilk recipe.

  I got my first chance to ‘play my part’ the next day in Theater Arts class. Thinking it would be easy credits, I was mortified when the teacher, Mrs Dornan wanted me to introduce myself to the class by giving a sixty second performance on the stage. I could use costume and props if I liked.

  Blair P loved the limelight, but not me. Margaret’s hairdryer had about as much power as a handheld fan, and consequently I’d arrived at school with damp hair. Goodness knows how it looked now. Tying it up into a ponytail wasn’t an option as it would expose too much of my face, so I could only imagine that it was hanging on my head with as much style as a string mop.

  About to declare my shyness, I was saved by the door bursting open and Alex Lord stumbling into the room. His laces, once again, were loose and untied.

  “Sorry, I’m late,” he said, every head turning at his accent, “I got lost.”

  Learning he was the new English exchange student, Mrs Dornan forgave him immediately, and had a brain wave—before announcing some exciting news, Alex and I would introduce ourselves to the class by performing an act where we would introduce the other person. She thought this was the most marvelous idea she’d ever had, and as I protested that I had no acting experience whatsoever and didn’t know a single thing about Alex Lord, she merely patted my shoulder and directed us to the prop box, and said in a clipped voice, “Impromptu, my dear.”