King of Hawthorne Prep

by Jennifer Sucevic

  But something tells me I’m going to find out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “You’re becoming a real regular around here,” the carwash attendant says with a grin.

  Unfortunately, this is true.

  When I give him a tight smile in response, he asks, “You want the premium wash again?”

  “Yes, please.” I hand over the credit card.

  Before he runs it through the machine, he asks, “Have you considered purchasing a monthly package?” There’s a pause. “It might save you a couple bucks.”

  This is my fourth time through the carwash in little more than a week. The little fuckers don’t egg my SUV every day, but it’s pretty damn close. I’m trying to figure out a way to sneak out of sixth hour a couple minutes early, but so far, Mr. Timmons has been a stickler about dismissing us after the final bell.

  By that time, it’s too late and I have to do the walk of shame through a crowd of my peers who are eagerly waiting for me to meltdown. I refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing me lose my shit. I’ll cry and scream in private, thank you very much. At school, I’m an iceberg. Nothing they do can touch me.

  “Yeah,” I grumble, “I’ll buy the monthly package.”

  He nods as if agreeing with the decision and rings me up.

  After the carwash, I drive straight home. Kingsley’s words circle madly through my head. We’re not going to talk about how he was touching me when he gave me a brief history lesson on my family. We’re also not going to talk about why I’m a little fuzzy on the details. I park behind the Volvo in the driveway and beeline for the house. I have questions and I’m hoping my parents will give me answers.

  “I’m home,” I announce the moment I step in the cavernous foyer.

  “Hey, hon!” Mom calls back.

  Now that all of our belongings have been unpacked, she’s in full-on cleaning and redecorating mode. Some of Grandma’s furniture has been wrapped up and moved to one of the unused garage stalls until they figure out what to do with it. Mom is happier than I’ve seen her in a long time. Both used to work long hours to make ends meet. With the high cost of living in Chicago, they were always playing catch-up.

  In Hawthorne, life is different. The pace is slower. Mom has found her rhythm and is enjoying small town life to the fullest. Dad goes to the office every day and works a lot from home. He’s still trying to wrap his brain around the business side of the company. There seems to be a steep learning curve involved. Honestly, I haven’t asked a lot of questions. I’ve been too focused on keeping my head above water and surviving. But now it seems like part of my survival hinges upon me figuring out the Hawthorne family history.

  I peek in the study since that’s where I usually find them when I return from school. Both smile as I hover over the threshold, leaning against the doorjamb. I’m still not a fan of this room and go out of my way to avoid it.

  “How was school?” Mom asks, like she does every day.

  I shrug instead of giving an actual answer.

  “It’ll get better,” Mom promises with a confidence that almost makes me believe her. It’s reassuring that at least one of us has remained the same. Austin is so filled with rage that I’m afraid of what will happen when he finally blows. And Dad has become more withdrawn. He’s constantly pouring over paperwork and muttering to himself.

  And me?

  We all know the hell I’m going through. Barely am I hanging on by my fingernails. Any moment, I’ll lose the battle and plummet to a grisly death. Part of me wonders if it would be better that way. Exactly how much harassment is one person expected to withstand?

  “We’ll see,” I mutter cautiously, gaze falling to my father. “Hey, Dad?” I wait for him to glance up from the papers he’s shuffling around. “Would you mind telling me a little more about the company?”

  He blinks before taking off the wire-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Why do you want to know about that?”

  His guarded expression takes me by surprise. I was expecting him to be delighted with my interest.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “I remember you saying that the town is named after us because the company was founded here.”

  Dad leans back in his chair as he carefully contemplates the comment. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “The school, too.”

  “Yeah,” he says in a clipped tone. “That as well.”

  “It’s almost like they loved the Hawthorne family so much, they named everything after us.” Nothing could be further from the truth, but it seems like a good place to start this fishing expedition.

  His lips thin and I get the distinct impression he disagrees with the statement. “Herbert Hawthorne did that.” There’s a pause. “A lot of people claimed that he was a narcissist, which is why he named everything after himself.”

  “Huh.” My gaze flickers around the space, touching on the window, fireplace, and bookshelves. The smell of aged leather-bound volumes permeates the air. That, coupled with the scent of lemony wood polish, must be what reminds me of Hawthorne Prep. “So, if everything in town is named after us, that must mean he started the company by himself.”

  “No,” he admits reluctantly, “in the beginning, Great-Grandpa Herbert had a partner.”

  A prickle of unease fills my belly when I realize that at least one piece of information Kingsley gave me was accurate.

  “Oh,” I say carefully, “that’s interesting. Who was his partner?”

  A frown settles on Dad’s features as he sits forward, resting his elbows on the desk and staring at me with narrowed eyes. “Is there a reason you’re asking?”

  Surprised by the suspicion that fills his expression, I jerk my shoulders. “Just curious. It’s our family history and the reason we had to uproot our lives and move here.” I wave a hand toward them. “Aren’t you two always encouraging me to ask questions?”

  “She’s right, Griffin,” Mom chimes in, looking as perplexed by her husband’s odd behavior as I am.

  Dad’s lips flatten before he begrudgingly continues. “Herbert’s partner was a man named Gerald Rothchild.”

  Rothchild? Why does that name sound so familiar?

  The store in town where I picked up my school supplies had the same name. There’s no way that’s a coincidence. It must be the same family, right?

  “Like the store in town?” I ask, the wheels in my brain spinning, integrating all this newly gleaned information.

  “Yes.”

  I wait for him to pepper in a few more details, but he remains stoically silent. Normally, if I ask Dad a question, he expounds on the topic ad nauseam, giving me way more information than I wanted.

  With no other choice, I tilt my head and try to get him talking again. “Do the Rothchild’s still own part of the company?”

  “No.”

  Herbert Hawthorne tricked his partner into signing the company over to him.

  Is that what really happened?

  My frustration grows as Dad remains tightlipped. Why do I have to drag every little detail from him? “When did that happen? Did they part amicably?”

  Dad forces out a chuckle, but the amusement doesn’t reach his eyes. “What’s with all the questions, huh? Are you really this interested in our family history?”

  In this particular case?

  Absolutely.

  Every day, it becomes painfully clear that the people of Hawthorne hate us because of something that happened in the past. Until I’m able to get to the bottom of what that is, I can’t understand or fix the problem.

  Shifting my weight, I hastily manufacture an excuse. “I was thinking about writing a paper on the topic for English class.”

  The lines of tension bracketing his eyes and mouth grow more pronounced. “That’s probably not such a good idea.”

  “Oh?” I perk up, ready to pounce. “How come?” He needs to give me something here other than the run around.

  “It’s just not,” he says tightly, flicking h
is gaze to his wife before forcing a smile. “There are more interesting topics to focus on, like astronomy.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  That’s not going to happen. Now I’m more determined than ever to figure out our past. Even though I’m tempted to keep asking questions, intuition tells me it would be prudent to drop the topic for the time being and come at it again at a later point.

  I take a step into the hall. “All right then, I should probably—”

  “Wait!” Mom says, cutting me off. When I raise my brows in question, she continues. “Did I mention we’re going to host a party at the house over Labor Day weekend?”

  “A party?” I frown, my brain switching gears at that bit of news.

  Who the heck does she plan on inviting? No one in this town will even talk to us.

  She nods, a smile springing to her lips as her eyes crinkle. “Yup, I thought it would give everyone a chance to get to know us a little better. It might make things easier at school.”

  You know what that sounds like?

  A disastrous idea. But I don’t have the heart to tell Mom that and rain on her parade when she’s obviously excited about it. I glance at my father to gauge his thoughts, but his expression remains shuttered.

  The only thing this conversation has proven is that Dad knows more than he’s willing to admit. Kingsley mentioned two things this morning. One, Great-Great-Grandpa Herbert started Hawthorne Industries with a partner. And two, the partner was cheated out of his stake in the company. As much as I want to believe Kingsley is a liar, I can’t. He’s right about at least one thing and my gut tells me he’s probably right about the other.

  I need to figure out what happened and why.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I lay on the horn for the second time.

  Where the hell is Austin? Why is he taking so long?

  If he keeps this up, we’ll be late. A shiver works its way through my body. I wouldn’t necessarily call it fear, but it’s pretty damn close. I’ve been doing my best to fly under Ms. Pettijohn’s radar. Waltzing in late for the second time in a matter of weeks won’t help that objective.

  With my palm resting against the horn, I’m about to lay on it for a third time when the front door opens, and Austin rushes out with his head down and shoulders hunched. He’s been especially surly lately. My gut tells me that his foul mood has everything to do with football, but he’s remained frustratingly tightlipped about it.

  Once he slides into the passenger seat, I grumble, “What took you so long?”

  “Woke up late.” His words are barely audible.

  “Ever consider setting your alarm?”

  I wait for him to fire off a snarky comeback, but get instead, “Yeah, I’ll do that from now on.”

  I glance at him from the corner of my eye as he silently stares out the passenger side window at the house. Something feels off about his behavior, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.

  “Aus?” I lay a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” He shrugs off my touch. “Just drive, okay?”

  Surprised by the curt dismissal, my mouth tumbles open.

  What the hell is wrong with him?

  When I walked out of the house this morning, Austin had yet to appear for breakfast. Mom said something about him oversleeping. Come to think of it, I never saw him last night after practice. He had slammed into the house and shuttered himself away in his room. I’d knocked on his door, asking if he needed help with homework, but he’d claimed not to have any. I didn’t push the issue because I had a quiz to study for.

  Suspicion grows inside me. “Austin,” I blurt, angling my body toward him, “look at me.”

  “No.”

  My heartbeat hitches as my mouth turns cottony. “Why not?”

  “Summer, can you just drive?” There’s a pause as his voice drops. “Please?”

  “Not until I see your face.”

  For a long moment he remains still, and I wonder if we’ll sit in the driveway all morning. Finally, he huffs out an exasperated breath and swivels toward me. My eyes widen as I clap a hand over my mouth. His nose is bruised and swollen. The damage around his eye from last week had only begun to fade.

  “What happened?” Before he can say anything, I growl, “And don’t tell me it happened at football!”

  His lips lift into a humorless smile. “Well, it did happen at football, just not practice.”

  My mind whirls at the implication. “In the locker room, then?”

  “They want me to quit and I’m not going to.” His voice turns belligerent. One of Austin’s best qualities is that he’s relentless. In this instance, it’s a detriment to his health.

  “Who? Who wants you to quit?” I really hope Kingsley doesn’t have anything to do with this. Why that matters, I don’t know, but it does.

  He presses his lips together, refusing to answer.

  “Austin?” I search his battered face as he glares out the windshield.

  “You wanted to see what happened, now you’ve seen it. So drive. I don’t need to be late on top of everything else.”

  This is getting out of hand.

  “Maybe we should tell Mom and Dad,” I murmur, pulling the car out of the driveway and heading to the main road.

  He barks out a laugh. “What the hell are they going to do about it?”

  I chew my lower lip and contemplate the question. It’s the same rationale I used for not mentioning the vandalism to the G-wagon. Mom is under the delusion that throwing a party will fix all our problems.

  It won’t.

  My belly pinches with nerves as I turn onto school property and pass through the gate. It’s been less than two weeks and I hate Hawthorne Prep along with the kids who attend it. I glance at the clock on the dashboard. We have ten minutes to get to class. At least we won’t be late. For one more day, I’ll escape the wrath of Ms. Pettijohn.

  We exit the vehicle and walk toward the entrance of the stone building. Conversations ground to a halt as we pass by. For fuck’s sake. This is the second week of school. Why are we still garnering this much attention? It sets my teeth on edge and sends a prickle of unease scuttling down my spine.

  Austin yanks open the glass door as we head to our lockers. It’s definitely not my imagination. More people are staring than usual. Smirks and whispers get shared behind cupped hands. There’s an air of anticipation that permeates the atmosphere.

  A feeling of foreboding gathers inside me. Instead of stopping at my locker, I follow closely behind Austin to his. Half of the football team is hanging around, talking in small clumps. Most go silent when they catch sight of us. The tension becomes even more stifling and I tug on Austin’s arm to stop him.

  He shoots me an impatient glance. “What?”

  My gaze flits around nervously, trying to pinpoint what the problem is. “I don’t know,” I mutter, “but something’s going on.”

  His lips flatten into a tight line. “They can’t do anything to us here.”

  If only that were true. Doesn’t Austin realize that these people don’t follow any rules other than their own?

  One of the football players straightens when he sees us. A malicious glint enters his eyes. “Looks like Hawthorne tripped again and landed on his face,” he says in an overly obnoxious voice before laughing. “Maybe you’re not coordinated enough to play football, bud. Ever think about taking up checkers? Might be the way to go.”

  My brother grits his teeth as every muscle becomes whipcord tight. His hands gather into fists. I recognize his body language for what it is. The not-so-calm before the storm. Dread pools inside me. I have no idea how to avoid the inevitable.

  The blond guy with stormy gray eyes appears to be the ringleader. Next to him is the girl who showed Austin around the first day of school. Delilah. Looking distinctly uncomfortable, she gnaws her bottom lip before whispering something in the douchebag’s ear. When he ignores her, she reaches out and tentatively
lays a hand on his bicep. He jerks his gaze away from my brother long enough to scowl before shaking off her touch.

  “Who is that?” I mutter from the side of my mouth, glaring at the guy. I know an enemy when I see one.

  “Jasper Morgan.”

  Even his name sounds douchey.

  “Let me guess, he’s the first-string quarterback.”

  “You guessed it.”

  For a moment, I squeeze my eyes shut. This is the guy who has been messing with Austin.

  Fuck.

  “That would about sum it up,” Austin mutters.

  “Why are they all standing around your locker?” The hallway is jam-packed with people. More than usual.

  “My guess is that we’re about to find out.” Austin’s tone and expression don’t betray him. He’s become a master at hiding his genuine feelings. If the past has taught him anything, it’s to keep your vulnerabilities buried deep inside where people can’t use them against you.

  As we move through the corridor, a whiff of something rancid catches my attention. I inhale again and try to figure out what it is and where it’s emanating from. Although, I’m pretty sure I have a sneaking suspicion.

  “Aus,” I claw at his arm, attempting to stop him, “forget about your locker, let’s head to class.”

  He shakes me off, unwilling to back down from whatever confrontation is about to unfold. His new teammates have brought the battle to him and Austin has never backed down from an altercation in his life. When you’re used to fighting for every scrap of respect, it becomes second nature. Sometimes I think he enjoys it.

  “Maybe you should listen to your hot sister and get your pussy ass to class,” Jasper yells.

  Austin snarls in response. I feel the pent-up adrenalin rushing through his blood.

  I glare at the guy who is dead set on provoking my brother into a reaction while his monkeys stand behind him. Delilah looks miserable. For a moment, a twinge of pity fills me before it’s quickly quashed. No one is forcing her to date an asshat.

  That’s her choice.