by Erin Watt
“Stick around,” Callum tells Durand through the open driver’s window. “I’ll ring you when we’re ready to leave.”
The black car disappears toward a parking gate at the far end of the drive. Callum turns to me and says, “Headmaster Beringer is expecting us.”
It’s hard to keep my jaw off the ground as I follow him up the wide set of steps toward the front doors. This school is bonkers. It oozes money and privilege. The manicured lawn and massive courtyard are deserted—I guess everyone is already in class—in one of the far fields I see a blur of uniform-clad boys playing soccer.
Callum follows my gaze. “Do you play any sports?”
“Uh, no. I mean, I’m athletic, kind of. Dance, gymnastics, that stuff. But I’m not very good at sports.”
He purses his lips. “That’s too bad. If you join a team or squad, you’re exempt from taking the phys ed class. I’ll ask if there’s an opening on one of the cheerleading squads—you might be a good fit there.”
A cheerleader? Yeah right. You need pep for that, and I’m the least peppy person you’ll ever meet.
We step into a lobby that belongs in a college movie. Large portraits of alumni hang on the oak-paneled walls, and the hardwood floor beneath our feet is polished. A few guys in blue blazers saunter by, their curious gazes landing on me briefly before they continue on.
“Reed and Easton play football—our team is number one in the state. And the twins play lacrosse,” Callum tells me. “If you earn a spot on a pep squad, you might end up cheering for one of their teams.”
I wonder if he realizes he’s just building an even bigger case for me not becoming a cheerleader. No way am I bouncing around and waving my arms in the air for an asshole Royal.
“Maybe,” I mutter. “I’d rather concentrate on my studies.”
Callum strides into the waiting room of the headmaster’s office as if he’s been there hundreds of times before. He probably has, because the white-haired secretary behind the desk greets him like they’re old friends.
“Mr. Royal, it’s lovely to see you here under positive circumstances for a change.”
He offers a crooked grin. “Tell me about it. Is Francois ready for us?”
“He is. Go right in.”
* * *
The meeting with the headmaster goes smoother than I expect. I wonder if Callum threw some money at the guy so he wouldn’t ask too many questions about my background. But he must have been told some things, because at the start of the meeting, he asks if I want to be called Ella Harper or O’Halloran.
“Harper,” I answer stiffly. I’m not giving up my mother’s name. She raised me, not Steve O’Halloran.
I’m given my class schedule, which includes a gym class. Against my protests, Callum tells Headmaster Beringer that I’m interested in trying out for a pep squad. Jeez. I have no idea what this man has against PE.
Once we’re done, Beringer shakes my hand and tells me that my student guide is waiting in the lobby to take me on a quick tour. I shoot a panicky glance at Callum, but he’s oblivious—too busy talking about the ninth green being tricky. Apparently he and Beringer are golf buddies, and he waves me off, telling me Durand will bring the car around in an hour.
I bite my lip as I leave the office. I don’t know how I feel about this school. Academically, I’m told it’s top-notch. But everything else…the uniforms, the fancy campus…I don’t fit in. I already know this, and my thoughts are confirmed the moment I meet my tour guide.
She’s wearing the navy-blue skirt and white dress shirt that make up the school uniform, and everything about her screams money, from her perfectly styled hair to the French-tip nails. She introduces herself as Savannah Montgomery—“Yes, those Montgomerys,” she says knowingly, as if that’s supposed to clue me in. I still have no fricking idea who she is.
She’s a junior like me, and she spends a good twenty seconds sizing me up. Her nose wrinkles at my tight jeans and tank top, the scuffed combat boots on my feet, my hair, my unmanicured nails and hastily applied makeup.
“Your uniforms will be shipped to your house this weekend,” she informs me. “The skirt’s non-negotiable, but there are ways around the hem length.” She winks and smooths out the bottom of her skirt, which barely grazes her lower thighs. The other girls I glimpsed in the hallway had their skirts down to their knees.
“What, blow the teachers, get a shorter skirt allowance?” I ask politely.
Her ice-blue eyes widen in alarm. Then she laughs awkwardly. “Um, no. Just slip a hundie to Beringer if one of the teachers complains, and he looks the other way.”
Must be nice living in a world were you can slip people “hundies.” I’m a dollar-bill kinda girl. Because that was the denomination usually tucked into my G-string.
I decide not to share that with Savannah.
“Anyway, let me show you around,” she says, but we’re barely a minute into the tour before I realize she’s not interested in playing tour guide. She wants intel.
“Classroom, classroom, ladies’ room.” Her fancy fingernails flick at various doors as we head down the hall. “So Callum Royal is your legal guardian?—classroom, classroom, junior faculty lounge—How did that happen?”
I’m stingy with my response. “He knew my father.”
“Callum’s business partner, right? My parents were at his funeral.” Savannah flips her chestnut brown hair over her shoulder and pushes open a set of doors. “Freshman classrooms,” she says. “You won’t be spending much time here. Sophomore classes are in the east wing. So you’re living with the Royals, huh?”
“Yes.” I don’t elaborate.
We whiz past a long row of lockers, which look nothing like the narrow, rusty lockers in the public schools I went to over the years. These are navy-blue and the width of three regular lockers. They gleam in the sunlight streaming in from the wall of windows in the hall.
We’re outside before I can blink, walking down a cobblestone path lined with gorgeous shade trees on each side. Savannah points to another ivy-covered building. “That’s the junior wing. All your classes will be in there. Except PE—the gym’s on the south lawn.”
East wing. South lawn. This campus is ridiculous.
“You meet the boys yet?” She stops in the middle of the path, her shrewd dark eyes fixed on my face. She’s sizing me up again.
“Yep.” I meet her gaze head-on. “Wasn’t too impressed.”
That gets me a startled laugh. “You’re in the minority then.” Her face sharpens again. “First thing you need to know about Astor—the Royals run this place, Eleanor.”
“Ella,” I correct.
She waves her hand. “Whatever. They make the rules. They enforce them.”
“And you all follow them like good little sheep.”
A slight sneer touches her lips. “If you don’t, then the four years you spend here will be miserable.”
“Well, I don’t give a damn about their rules,” I say with a shrug. “I might live in their house, but I don’t know them, and I don’t want to know them. I’m just here to get my diploma.”
“All right, I guess it’s time for another lesson about Astor.” She shrugs back. “Only reason I’m being so nice to you right now—”
Wait, this is her way of being nice?
“—is because Reed hasn’t issued the Royal decree yet.”
I raise a brow. “Meaning?”
“Meaning all it takes is one word from him and you’ll be nothing here. Insignificant. Invisible. Or worse.”
Now I laugh. “Is this supposed to scare me?”
“No. It’s just the truth. We’ve been waiting for you to show up. We were warned, and we’ve been told to stand down until otherwise ordered.”
“By who? Reed? The King of Astor Park? Gee, I’m trembling in my panties.”
“They haven’t reached a decision about you. They will soon, though. I’ve known you for five minutes and I can already tell you what their decision will be.” She s
mirks. “Women have a sixth sense. It doesn’t take us long to know what we’re dealing with.”
I smirk back. “No. It doesn’t.”
The stare-off that follows only lasts a few seconds. Long enough for me to convey with my eyes that I don’t give a shit about her, or Reed, or this social hierarchy she clearly abides by. Then Savannah flips her hair again and beams at me.
“Come on, Eleanor, let me show you the football stadium. It’s state-of-the-art, you know.”
7
Savannah’s tour wraps up after a view of the indoor Olympic-size swimming pool. If there’s one thing she approves of, it’s my figure. The barely fed look is popular, she informs me with a brusqueness I’m beginning to believe is just her personality and not a reflection of what she thinks of me.
“You might think I’m a bitch, but I’m just honest. Astor Park is an entirely different kind of school. I’m assuming you went to public?” She gestures toward my thrift store skinny jeans.
“Yeah, but so what? School is school. I get it. There are different cliques. The popular kids, the rich kids—”
She flips her hand up to stop me. “No. This isn’t like anything you’ve ever experienced before. The gym we saw earlier?” I nod at the question. “It was originally supposed to be for the football team, but Jordan Carrington’s family threw a fit and it was re-designated as open access except during specific times. Between five and eight in the morning and two and eight in the afternoon, it’s football only. The rest of the time, normals can use it. Nice, hmmm?”
I’m not sure if she’s joking, because the limited access sounds ridiculous.
“Why did the Carringtons object?” I ask curiously.
“Astor Park is a prep school with a P.” Savannah keeps walking. There’s no quit button on her. “Every family in the state wants their kids to go here, but it’s exclusive. You can’t just have money to get in. Everyone that attends, even the scholarship students, are here because they have something special to offer. It might be that they’re great on the football field or can elevate the science team to win national awards, which means national press. In Jordan’s case, she’s the captain of the dance team, which in my opinion, is one step up from stripping—”
Crap, that better not be why Callum suggested that this morning.
“—but they win, and Astor likes to see its name in the paper next to the W.”
“Then why am I here?” I mutter under my breath.
But Savannah has superhero hearing because as she pushes open the front door, she says, “You’re a Royal of some sort. What kind of Royal remains to be seen. This school will eat you up if you’re weak, so my suggestion is to take advantage of everything the Royal name offers you, even if it means taking it by force.”
A car door slams and a very thin, platinum blonde in skintight jeans and sky-high stilettos totters towards us.
“Hello…um…” The stranger holds a hand to her forehead as if she’s shading her eyes from the sun, which is completely unnecessary given that she has enormous sunglasses covering her face.
My tour guide mutters softly. “That’s Callum Royal’s girlfriend. You don’t have to be nice to her. She’s just an extra.”
And with that last bit of sage advice, Savannah disappears, leaving me with this wisp of a woman.
“You must be Elaine. I’m Brooke, Callum’s friend. I’m here to take you shopping.” She claps her hands together as if this is the most exciting thing ever.
“Ella,” I correct.
“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m so terrible with names.” She beams at me. “We’re going to have so much fun today!”
I hesitate. “Um. We don’t have to go shopping. I’m good just hanging out here at the school until the bus comes.”
“Oh dear,” she titters. “There are no buses. Besides, Callum told me to take you shopping so that’s what we’re going to do.”
She grips my arm with surprising strength and drags me toward the Town Car. And inside is Durand. I’m beginning to love him.
“Hey, Durand.” I wave, before glancing back at Brooke. “How about I sit up front with Durand and let you relax in the back?” I offer.
“No. I want to get to know you.” She pushes me into the backseat and climbs in beside me. “Tell me everything.”
I stifle a sigh, not exactly looking forward to making small talk with Callum’s girlfriend. Then I chastise myself for it, because Brooke hasn’t done anything but be nice to me. I’m not usually so judgy, and I force myself to lower my guard a little. If anything, it sounds like Brooke is more my type than the Royals, if random classmates of the boys call her an extra.
She looks young, though. Really young. As in Callum could be her father young.
“There’s not much to tell,” I reply with a shrug. “I’m Ella Harper. Callum says that Steve O’Halloran is my father.”
Brooke nods. “Yes, he told me this morning. Isn’t that amazing? He told me how he found you just a few hours away and he was so upset to discover your mom had passed away.” She reaches for my hand, her bright smile dimming at the corners slightly. “My mother died when I was thirteen. A brain aneurysm. I was heartbroken, so I know just how you feel.”
When she squeezes my hand, I feel a lump develop in my throat. I have to swallow twice before I can answer. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Her eyelids flutter closed for a moment, as if she’s also struggling for control over her emotions. “Well, we’re both in a better place now, aren’t we? Callum saved me as well, you know.”
“You were stripping, too?” I blurt out.
Brooke’s eyes widen and a little laugh trips out before she can cover her mouth. “Is that what you were doing?”
“It wasn’t full nudity.” I cringe in the face of her giggles, wishing I never brought it up in the first place.
She composes herself and reaches out to pat my hand again. “I’m sorry I’m laughing. It’s not at you, but at Callum. He was probably mortified. He’s trying so hard to be a good father for his boys right now and I’m sure finding his young charge in a strip club had to be shocking.”
Flushed and embarrassed, I look out the window. This day couldn’t have gone worse. From the weird feelings Reed’s aggressive hate brought out, to the condescending tour guided by Savannah, to my embarrassing confession to Callum’s girlfriend. I hate feeling like I don’t belong. The first day at a new school. The first ride on a bus. The first—
A tap on my forehead interrupts my thoughts. “Hey, don’t get lost in there, sweetie.”
I glance over my shoulder at Brooke. “I’m not,” I tell her.
“Bullshit.” She speaks the curse word softly and tenderly. Her hand rises to cup my cheek. “I didn’t strip, but that’s because I chose to do worse things to get by. You get no judgment from me. None. The important thing is that you’re not there anymore and you won’t ever have to be again. If you play your cards right, you’ll be set for life.” Then she pulls her hand back and smacks me lightly. “Now, put on a smile because we’re going shopping.”
Not gonna lie, that sounds good to me. “How much will it cost?” I’ve been to the mall before. Things can add up fast, even if they’re on sale, but if I have a school uniform then I only need one or two items. Another pair of pants. Maybe a shirt or two. The beach is nearby so a swimsuit makes sense. I could part with a few hundred dollars.
Brooke’s face lights up. She pulls out a card and waves it in front of my face. “You’re asking the wrong question. This is all on Callum and trust me, no matter what he says about his business being in the toilet a few years ago, that man could buy and sell the entire shopping complex and still have enough left over to make even the most expensive hooker orgasm.”
I don’t even know how to respond to that.
* * *
We end up at an outdoor mall that features tiny shops with tiny clothes and enormous price tags. When I can’t bring myself to pull the trigger on any purchase—$1500 for a pair of shoes
? Are they made out of actual gold?—Brooke takes over and shoves item after item at the sales clerk.
There are so many bags and boxes, I’m scared Durand is going to have to trade in the Town Car for a U-Haul. After the tenth store, I’m exhausted, and from the sigh she heaves out, I’m guessing Brooke isn’t far behind.
“I’m going to sit here and enjoy some refreshments while you finish up.” She sinks down in a velvet chair and gestures for a salesgirl, who comes over immediately.
“What can I get for you, Ms. Davidson?”
“A mimosa.” She waves a hand at me, clutching the black credit card she’s been using so hard I’m surprised it hasn’t melted between her fingers. “Go forth and buy. Callum will be disappointed if you come home with less than a trunk full of bags. He specifically told me that you needed everything.”
“But…I…” I’m completely out of my element. Drop me in a Walmart or heck, even a Gap, and I think I could do just fine. But here? None of these clothes look like they should even be worn, but Brooke’s done talking to me. She and the sales clerk are having an intense conversation about whether gray flannel or gray tweed is a better fall trend.
I reluctantly take the credit card, which is heavier than any card I’ve ever felt. I wonder if there’s another card sandwiched between this one and that’s how Brooke manages to charge half the store and not be turned away. I leave and buy a few more things, trembling at the cost of them, and am frankly relieved when Durand shows up to take us back to the Royal Castle.
On the drive home, Brooke chatters my ear off and offers tips about how to pair up some of my purchases to create the perfect designer “ensemble.” Some of her suggestions make me giggle, and I’m startled to realize I didn’t have such a bad time with Brooke today. Her enthusiasm is a bit much, sure, and she’s kind of over the top, but maybe I was being unfair when I questioned Callum’s taste in women. If anything, Brooke is at least entertaining.
