by Jenna Scott
“What about backup schools?” she asks. “Just in case.”
“I applied to a few of those too,” I tell her. “Just waiting to hear back now. Acceptance letters start going out soon. Fingers crossed.”
“Wonderful!” she says brightly. “Let me show you to your locker.”
Dr. Warren leads me to a loud, busy hallway on the first floor, hands me a Post-it with my locker combination written on it, and waits to make sure I get the locker open. It’s as good as having a flashing neon sign over my head that says “New Girl,” but I’m grateful for the kindness.
Just as she finishes explaining where my first class is, the warning bell rings.
“That’s the five-minute bell. Better scoot,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the stairwell. “Good luck, Miss Hanson. I know you’ll do well here.”
The second bell has already rung by the time I get upstairs and find my classroom, desperation making me breathless as I rush through the door. The first thing I notice is that the teacher is running later than me, which, small mercy. The second is the instant pause in the hubbub around the room—I can just feel everyone staring at me. And I know what they must be thinking: new girl, scholarship charity case, looking sweaty and anxious in her somewhat-tight blazer and cheap shoes.
My pulse kicks up as my eyes flit around the room, desperately seeking a place to sit and blend in before the teacher arrives and makes a big deal over me.
“There’s a seat here,” a boy in the third row says, nodding to the empty desk next to him.
A relieved smile plays on my lips, and as I head over and sink into the chair, I let out a quiet, “Thanks.”
Once I’m seated, everyone’s interest slides off me. I slip my bag off my shoulder, and the boy waits for me to dig out my notebook and pen to speak again.
“I’m Emmett, by the way. Nice to meet you.”
I have to remind myself that the chances of him knowing about the Incident are low; that he’s being genuinely nice. His hazel-brown eyes look warm, at least, and not like they’re about to turn judgy and scornful.
“Camilla.” I try my best to come across normal, to seem like I don’t have a huge cloud hanging over me, like my mom isn’t an alcoholic and I wasn’t expelled from my last school. “Nice to meet—”
“All right, young ones. To your seats, and put those phones away,” an overly-caffeinated voice commands.
Our World History teacher strolls in, an older man so tall and lean he might have once played in the NBA. He’s wearing designer glasses and a suit—the guidance counselor had been wearing a suit too, so I guess it isn’t just the students who Oak Academy forces to wear a uniform. Faculty gets the treatment too.
Chairs drag across the floor, and Emmett sits up straighter. I do the same, watching in silence as our instructor sets his leather laptop bag on the dark wood desk and gives the room a cursory glance.
Cursory, that is, until he finds me.
“Right. I was told we’d have a new pupil today.” Adjusting his glasses, he looks over at me. “I’m Mr. Robertson, and this is World History. Remind me of your name?”
I stand up and fold my hands in front of me. “Camilla Hanson, sir.”
Students are turning in my direction, checking me out again, but I pretend not to notice. Mr. Robertson just nods, and I’m glad to return his neutral eye contact.
“Great. Are you familiar with Indian maritime history?” His tone is that of someone who’s assessing me, which I expected. Everyone wants to know what the new girl is capable of as soon as possible.
But while I’ve technically been out of school for a month or so, I’ve been keeping up with my studying. “Yes,” I answer.
“Tell me about how it began, then.” He’s saying it casually, but it’s obvious he’s trying to gauge both my knowledge and how accurately I’ve presented myself.
I pause, feeling my cheeks burn with all the attention that’s on me right now. “Do you want me to start with Before the Common Era? Indus Valley trade with Mesopotamia and all of that, or the later establishment of the navy…?”
“You can skip ahead to the fifteenth-century European discovery of India’s spice wealth and subsequent trade routes,” Robertson says, but his tone is less searching and more interested now.
“Sure,” I say, mentally choosing my words carefully. “The official start of the spice trade is generally credited to Vasco da Gama’s voyage from Portugal to Calicut, or Kozhikode, in 1497, when he initially returned with a cargo of,” I think for a second, then nod to myself as I continue, “pepper and cinnamon. After that, Portugal had a monopoly on the ocean route to India for almost a decade unchallenged. But in terms of ‘discovering’ India’s spice wealth, as you put it, sixty-five years earl—”
“That’s enough.” Mr. Robertson, who’s been raising his eyebrows along with every word I speak, cuts me off before I can finish. “You may sit back down.”
My mouth closes at once, and I wait for him to turn his back to the class and begin writing on the blackboard to mutter under my breath, “Sixty-five years earlier, the Chinese Muslim adventurer Ma Huan visited India on one of his expeditions. He wrote all about their spices and other aspects of their economy, politics, and culture in his book, The Overall Survey of the Ocean’s Shores, published in 1451.”
I’d read about Ma Huan in a high-adventure historical YA novel, and after falling into a Wikipedia hole, realized a lot of it was actually true—except for the part where Huan was a girl. Whoever said you can’t learn anything about the real world from YA clearly never read the right books.
Beside me, Emmett lets out a quiet chuckle, and when I glance over at him, I realize he has a cute set of dimples.
“This class should really be called Eurocentric World History,” he whispers.
I grin. Ally acquired.
The remainder of the class passes without anything eventful happening, and after I pack up my bag, I find myself walking out along with Emmett. He’s been nice to me so far, so when we break into the corridor, I ask, “Do you know where Lab 4 is? I have AP Bio with Domnizky next, and I don’t want to get lost on the way there.”
“Sure thing,” he says brightly, pointing as he starts to direct me. “Just go left at the end of this hall and across the glass walkway to the science building. Once you’re there, you’ll see the numbers on the doors. Pretty easy.”
Laughter trickles into my ears, background noise that grows into what sounds like a full-on taunt. A shiver runs between my shoulder blades when I look toward the source. It’s a group of girls, all with shining hair and perfect white teeth, some hiding their smiles behind well-manicured nails, others not even bothering.
At their center, with a pretty girl on his arm like an accessory, is Hunter Beck.
I freeze. My eyes meet his, and there it is again—that familiar lazy smirk spreading across his lips. Why is he looking my way? Are they all laughing at me? Did he tell everyone I saw him screwing some random girl in his pool last night? That I didn’t run? That I liked what I saw?
Or is it that both my mom and I work for his family? That I’m “the help”?
Shame rises in me, flooding my cheeks with heat and crushing the breath in my lungs. Hunter whispers something into the ear of the girl he’s with, and she looks at me and throws her head back in a throaty laugh.
I’m not imagining it. They are talking about me.
Is there a sinkhole that can suck me underground right now? An invisibility cloak I can put on? I want to run, but that will probably just make it worse. My shoulders start to slump when I feel a comforting weight wrap around them. It’s Emmett’s arm, I realize.
“Hey, Camilla?” he says, pitching his voice low and steering me gently in the other direction. “Don’t pay attention to them. They act like that every day. A bunch of hyenas in lipstick, with Jockface McGee as their sidekick.”
He seems genuine enough that I let myself relax a little, and he pulls his arm away to adjust his messenger bag
, like he’s suddenly all shy about touching me.
Smiling over at him, I say, “Thanks for that. I just—it’s my first day, and I don’t know anyone here, and it feels like everyone is staring at me.”
“Honestly, they kind of are. But it’s just because you’re new. It’ll wear off.”
I nod and realize we’ve reached the glass walkway to the next building. “Well. Guess this is my stop,” I joke awkwardly, gesturing at the corridor.
“Cool. Good luck in bio,” Emmett says, turning to go.
“Wait!” I call out. “Um, do you know if there’s someplace I can charge my phone? I just realized it’s dead.”
“There’re outlets in the lab, and you can just plug it in there. Domnizky won’t mind.” His brow crinkles. “Do you want to borrow my lightning cable?”
“That’s okay, I have what I need.” No need to tell him it’s because my phone is so ancient that a standard USB cord won’t actually work for me.
“Cool cool,” he says, then hesitates. “Do you want to maybe give me your number? Since we have that group project for history? I’ll text you so you can save me to your contacts once you’re powered back up. I mean, if you want. No pressure.”
Aww, he really is nice, isn’t he? “I’d love that. I already consider you a friend.”
He grins, and I tap my cell number into his phone before we part ways.
It’s only as I turn around to head to the science building that I see Hunter out of the corner of my eye. He’s leaning against a locker as if he’s got nowhere else to be right now, and I can’t help wonder if it’s just a coincidence or if he stood there watching me give Emmett my phone number.
Either way, I hope Hunter saw the exchange—maybe it will make him realize that I’m perfectly capable of making friends here and that his shit-talk is a waste of time. God knows I have enough to worry about at my new school already.
I wish Hunter would just leave me the hell alone.
Chapter Four
Camilla
I’ve never been the kind of student who can just goof off in class, stare out the window daydreaming, or doodle in my notebook and then still do well on homework and exams. Nope. My straight As are the result of treating school like it’s my job. I stay focused, hit the books hard, and never lose sight of my long-term goals. Luckily, I love learning—I’m a total Ravenclaw. In other words: nerd alert.
For the next few hours, I’m so engrossed in my courses that my classes fly right by, and then suddenly it’s my lunch period.
The Oak Academy cafeteria is packed with faces I don’t know and so loud I can barely hear myself think. I’m sure Emmett wouldn’t mind if I joined him, but I can’t spot him or an empty table, and there’s no way I’m going to walk up to a bunch of complete strangers and ask if I can sit with them. The thought of getting rejected is way too humiliating, and I have no idea what kind of rumors the gossip mill (a.k.a. Hunter Beck & Co.) have already managed to spread about me.
As I stand in the serving line, I debate my options. I could send Emmett a text with my freshly-charged phone, but it feels desperate. I just met the guy. I don’t want to be sticking to him like glue already because I’m pathetic when it comes to social skills.
My stomach growls painfully, reminding me I’ve had nothing to eat since those Pop-Tarts four hours ago. As I look up at the menu on the wall, I’m totally overwhelmed. They have made-to-order salads and sandwiches, grilled organic veggies, a selection of steak, tuna, and chicken, vegan and gluten-free options, a wok and sushi bar… It’s like a Las Vegas buffet. And since my scholarship covers all my meals and supplies on top of my tuition, I can choose whatever I want. But then my mother’s jab last night about my weight echoes in my mind, and my appetite disappears.
In the end, I grab a granola bar and a banana and wolf them both down on my way to the library, where I plan to spend my lunch period studying. It seems like my best bet for now. Especially since my genius plan for getting the students at Oak Academy to leave me alone and forget I exist is to keep a low profile.
After what happened at my last school, I need to be as invisible as possible.
The library is in the east wing, and it’s love at first sight for me. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows let in tons of light, and the tall wooden bookshelves are packed with volumes but still neat as a pin. In the center of the room, gleaming silver MacBooks sit open on study tables to offer students access to the library’s card catalog, the internet, and word-processing programs. More tables and chairs are placed at intervals along walls hung with framed art, and there are comfy couches you can sit on to read—a far cry from the library at my last school, which was a harsh fluorescent bulb-lit room with hard plastic chairs and a handful of particle board bookshelves.
As I work on my lab bio homework, I breathe in deeply, basking in this reprieve from my pent-up nerves and tension. As much as I’d like to chalk it up to first day jitters, I know deep down that Hunter is the real reason I’m wound up so tightly.
What has he told people about me? And how many Oak Academy students already know I walked in on him and some girl in flagrante in the Becks’ pool?
Ugh, why am I even thinking about this right now? The only Beck that deserves my attention is Harry, not his manwhore of a brother.
I leave a few minutes before the bell rings and make that call to SDG&E’s bill pay line, only to find out we owe $150 for our overdue bill, the late fee, and the reconnection charge. It stings to know I’m going to have to cover it with my babysitting money, but I know that if I leave it to my mother, it’ll be days before we have electricity again. Thankfully, the Becks pay me well. It’ll only take a few days to earn it back.
Heading through the halls toward English, the temptation to constantly look over my shoulder returns full force. My ears are pricked, listening for the whispering and giggles that surrounded Hunter this morning, but mercifully, I make it to class without running into him again.
In fact, I don’t see him for the rest of the day. Luck is on my side.
My last class is debate, which I’ve been looking forward to. I’ve always hated public speaking, but this is more about articulating a specific point of view against an opponent—while having to think on your feet—which is a skill I’d love to have when things get ugly with my mom. Not to mention, the class will look great on my transcripts for college, especially if I make it to any of the big debate competitions around the county this year. Let’s just say my nonexistent athletic abilities have left my list of extracurricular activities a bit lacking.
The teacher, Ms. Spencer, welcomes me with a smile and a textbook when I walk into the room and tells me to take any empty seat, which puts me instantly at ease. Then she tells the class my name and leaves it at that—no corny introduction, no “Why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself, Camilla,” no on-the-spot interrogation in front of the other students to see how smart I am (or am not).
As she begins her lecture, pacing around the room to make eye contact with each of us in turn, I can’t help but notice her hoop earrings have little skulls dangling from them. I love her. My hand quickly starts to ache from all the notes I’m scribbling.
“And now it’s time for the fun part,” she announces. “You all should have studied the handouts you received last week on the imaginary country of Spencylvania, so let’s debate the pros and cons of admitting them.”
Ms. Spencer then calls up a student named Sarah to advocate for Spencylvania’s entry into the United Nations, assigning her the title of speaker for the United Nations Security Council. Her job is to recommend Spencylvania to the General Assembly (the rest of the class) and explain why. A tall, visibly shy kid named Jazz is then assigned the opposing position of a General Assembly member seeking to block the rest of the assembly from achieving a two-thirds majority vote to admit Spencylvania.
We, the class, are supposed to vote after the debate has concluded. But halfway through, Ms. Spencer makes Sarah and Jazz switch places and
debate the opposing side.
Even though I’m excused from participating today, Ms. Spencer gives me a copy of the handout from last week, and I find myself completely engaged in the exercise. We’re not just learning how to present arguments, we’re learning how the United Nations works and what kinds of things go into their decision-making processes. My brain is firing on so many levels.
For the second half of class, we’re supposed to split into groups of two and research an assigned topic in preparation for a team debate exercise later in the week. My stomach is all butterflies with excitement, but then the door creaks open, interrupting Ms. Spencer’s words.
Every set of eyes in the room turns toward the door, including mine. To my abject horror, I see Hunter Beck stroll in like he’s walking down a red carpet in front of an adoring crowd of fans rather than showing up twenty minutes late to class.
A smug smile curves his lips, but none of his charm seems to carry any weight with Ms. Spencer. She’s frowning, and I catch her shaking her head to herself before she says, “Please take your seat, Mr. Beck, and know that this is your third strike. The next time you’re late, I’ll be sending you directly to the principal’s office.”
“Just came from there, actually,” Hunter says with a shrug, sliding into his seat.
“We were about to start on a group activity.” The teacher’s sharp eyes scan the room. When they settle on me, my heart begins to pound, my thoughts a panicked circle of please not me, please not me. “You can be Camilla’s partner.”
I nod at Ms. Spencer, every ounce of focus I have going into keeping my face neutral. This class had started out so well, but now it’s taken a turn for the worse. The teacher hands out our topics and then instructs us to get into our groups and begin.
Hunter’s eyes meet mine from across the room, and I bristle under their bright blue sparkle. What is it about me that’s always so damn amusing to him? God, he’s so full of himself. Nothing but scorn and arrogance for us “little people.” I can’t stand him.
