False Facades (Best Sellers: Best Romance/Humor )

by Martha Greenwood

  False Facades

  Martha Greenwood

  PUBMOB Company

  Paris ,France

  Hanoi Vietnam

  Text copyright © 2013 by Martha Greenwood

  All rights reserved.

  PUBMOB Company

  2402 CT2 Ngo Thi Nham, Ha Dong, Hanoi, Vietnam.

  Visit our Web site at www. PUBMOB.com

  First Edition: July 2013

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN-13: 978-1490979052

  ISBN-10: 1490979050

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter One

  "Mr. Sam Westlane, is it?" The headmaster of the prestigious Crestan High School peered over his frames at the small boy sitting in front of him. As the principal of the private all boys school for the last thirty years, he had grown more and more determined to uphold the school's traditions and maintain its "legacy of producing high upstanding young men to assume leadership positions in the world". In other words, to prevent the boys from tearing apart his precious building with their cheerful mischief before they graduated.

  A rosy, rounded man, his seat creaked painfully as he shifted. "I'm Headmaster Finnigan. I'm extremely pleased to have you as a new addition to our wonderful school. I've looked at your files. It's amazing." He nodded at the boy. "You're here on full scholarship. That's quite a task to accomplish. I congratulate you." His eyes squinted behind the wire rimmed glasses as he glanced over the documents spread out before him. "But you say that you mailed your old school records to us?" Shaking his head slowly, he flipped through the papers. "I'm sorry, but we haven't received anything yet. Perhaps it was lost in the mail? You must have them on file or something, I hope."

  The boy shook his head and whispered, "No."

  Finnigan frowned. Sam Westlane kept his eyes cast down. The boy's shiny red hair was cut short and messily, ragged at the ends. His clothes were baggy and oversized, engulfing his small frame. He was clearly extremely shy and nervous, chewing his lip every two seconds. The boy had obviously been through hard times, arriving just this morning with only a tiny banged up suitcase and his letter of acceptance.

  The principal sighed. He sympathized with the boy. He'd seen too many spoiled, rich brats and it was nice to see someone different for a change.

  The boy tensed after the long silence. He whispered softly again, "Does this mean I can't stay?"

  Lord, he sounded devastated. Finnigan was suddenly determined to help young Westlane out. Nodding briskly, he said,"I believe we can overlook this as long as you prove to be hard-working, responsible and conscientious - in short, a model Crestan student." At least, what I believe should be a Crestan student . . .

  Sam Westlane's head shot up and he eagerly thanked the headmaster. Finnigan took a while to answer because he was momentarily stunned by the boy's beautiful, emerald green eyes and his pale, porcelain skin. The boy looked almost . . . feminine. Finnigan shook his head to clear his thoughts and frowned. Poor kid. Something tells me he’s not just going to be bullied by the others for his financial status alone. They’re going to drive him away by the end of the week, just like the last kid who came here on scholarship. What a shame. He seems like such a nice boy, too.

  * * *

  Sam Westlane breathed a silent prayer. The ordeal was over. The school had accepted him. His only problem now was to make sure no one found out his secret - that Sam Westlane was actually Samantha Westlane and that she was far from meeting the standards for the "model Crestan student".

  She smiled to herself. Headmaster Finnigan seemed like a nice, friendly man and she had felt a bit guilty for lying to him . . . but it was necessary. Her future depended on this step. Her fingers tightened instinctively as the memories she'd tried so hard to lock away resurfaced with a vengeance. Her parents' deaths in the car accident …her energetic brother now stuck in a coma like a living vegetable . . . her uncle taking her in . . . her uncle's vile treatment of her for two years . . .

  Sam shook her head and breathed deeply. She'd finally run away after finding out that her desperate application to Crestan had been accepted. For days, she'd prayed that her uncle wouldn't find out and lock her away in the attic again, but luck was on her side. She'd managed to intercept the mail and she'd nearly wept with relief at the sight of the thick envelope.

  With this, she could finally assume the identity of the last person her uncle would look for: a teenage boy enrolled in the famous prep school for the rich and the spoiled.

  Yes, everything is finally going to change. Her hands tightened on her bag, knuckles whitening. It was time that her life took a turn for the better.

  * * *

  She changed her mind. Her bad luck was still running strong and fast. After getting her schedule and supplies, she found her dorm room. Standing before the nondescript oak door, she quickly smoothed down her short hair, which she had cropped off awkwardly with a pair of shears, and reached out for the doorknob.

  Then she looked down again and pressed her hands down her clothes, fluffing her father's old shirt to ensure that it was loose around her small chest, which she had tried to bind down anyway with some old bandages she'd stolen from her uncle's medicine cabinet. She really, really hoped her roommate was nice and not too attentive to details. Heaving another breath, she turned the doorknob. It was unlocked. With a hesitant smile, she stepped in and stopped short.

  A tall boy her age looked up, startled. His dark black hair was still damp from the shower and his clear gray eyes pierced into hers. Her gaze moved down to his bare, tanned chest and she felt her cheeks burning. He was evidently in the middle of changing. Thank god he had on a pair of blue jeans already. "S – sorry," she whispered and slammed the door.

  She leaned on the door and covered her face embarrassedly. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why didn't you knock? Stupid, stupid, stu - "WAHHH!" She fell backward when the door abruptly opened. Stumbling, she crashed against something solidly warm and she heard a soft grunt. Her roommate caught her in his arms to steady her and she looked up into a pair of irritated gray eyes.

  Mouth agape, she spun around and apologized profusely again. I'm an idiot.

  * * *

  Vincent raised his eyebrow as he leaned against the doorframe. The tiny boy continued whispering his apologies, nearly bowing by the time he was finished. Vincent's lips quirked in amusement before he plastered on a cool, bored look. He drawled, "I assume you're Sam Westlane . . . the new kid?"

  The boy nodded, wringing his hands together and keeping his eyes d
owncast. Vincent frowned as he studied his new roommate. This one's a nervous wreck. Should be easy enough to get rid of. Not like that nagging know-it-all who was here last time. This kid will be out of here by the end of the week. He sighed. And I was so looking forward to a challenge this time.

  It was well known throughout the campus that the student body was divided into two major sections: either you were on Vincent Grenford's side or you were against him -namely, on his rival, Tristan Harland's side. Between them, it was their favorite game to either recruit the newbies onto their sides or kick them out. Today, Vincent was in the mood to choose the latter.

  He nodded briskly at the boy and brushed past him. "I would tell you to make yourself comfortable ... but then again, there really isn't any need. You won't be around for long."

  Sam stared bewilderedly as the door closed behind the tall, handsome boy. What was that about? So much for getting a nice roommate. She blew a wisp of her bangs out of her eyes in defeat and turned around. The room was neat, at least. Her roommate was surprisingly well organized for a boy. Huh. Then again, I don't have much to compare to. Dad, Terry, Uncle Frank . . . Her teeth clenched and once again, she turned her attention back to the room. Pressing her lips together, she straggled slowly over to her side of the room and began to put away her sparse possessions.

  * * *

  Vincent strolled across the lawn, tucking his hands into his pockets. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught a slight movement and he quickly turned to catch the football his best friend, Jack, hurled at him. Jack laughed, "Damn, and here I was, hoping to give you a minor concussion."

  "Go to hell, you bastard," Vincent retorted with a roll of his eyes.

  "So?"

  He knew immediately what his friend was asking. He shrugged, "He's a goner. Too tiny and wimpy looking to join us. Name's Sam. Red hair, green eyes, an inch away from a nervous breakdown."

  Jack frowned, "Is he really annoying?"

  "Nah . . ." Vincent mused. "I think he might actually be a pretty nice guy. Too bad he's so edgy and quiet. He came in while I was changing and fled the room with his face as red as a volcano." Vincent smiled, amused. They continued their way across the meticulously kept green field, the smell of freshly mown grass pungent in the air. Other students who came their way quickly turned around or fled in a wide veer around the two boys.

  Jack laughed, oblivious to the other boys running off in the distance. "Maybe he's gay. Took one look at your sexy little self and swooned. Be careful tonight."

  "Ha ha, you're so funny." Vincent tossed the ball back to Jack. "I really do think he's not such a bad guy ." He shrugged. "We shouldn't be too harsh this time. Just minor pranks or so. I feel bad for him already - not like that four-eyed goody goody who was here last time." He wrinkled his nose. "Lord, he was annoying. Wouldn't stop yapping all the time."

  "Maybe he liked you too –"

  "I'm this close to slamming my fist into your face."

  "I'm shutting up."

  Chapter Two

  Tristan Harland squinted against the sun, hand running through his hair as he released a tired sigh. Marvin chattered away beside him and he tried to tune him out, quickening his steps. Marvin, a short spindly fellow with greasy hair, was too rich for his own good. For some reason, he was overly eager to follow Tristan around, making it his hobby to flatter his idol obsequiously. Half the time, Tristan just wanted to knock him senseless.

  "The way you told Grenford off the other day was just too awesome! Did you see his face?" Marvin chortled, reminding Tristan of bleating goats. "Priceless!"

  With another sigh, Tristan turned the corner, but he immediately staggered back as someone crashed into him. A red headed boy looked up at him, bewildered, and Tristan was momentarily struck by the startling green eyes. Panic twisted the other boy's features as he murmured in a voice so low, he was almost mouthing the words. "I'm sorry. So sorry."

  Marvin shoved the boy in the chest with one hand and the latter made an odd, squeaking sound as his hands flew up to cover his upper body, fingers settling on the collarbone. Marvin snapped, "Watch where you're going, you dork. Tristan, you alright?"

  Tristan rolled his eyes and turned back to the boy - only to find thin air. Twisting around, he stared in astonishment at the back of the fleeing boy. Boy, can he run fast. "You know who that kid was?"

  Marvin frowned and shook his head. "Must be new."

  Tristan nodded absentmindedly as he stared at the sprinting kid. The boy had his head ducked low and he was sprinting so fast, his arms fairly waved in the air. What a weird guy. "Wonder what Grenford thinks of him."

  * * *

  Sam wanted to whimper in defeat and hide. Just two hours and she'd already crashed into two cute guys. Was this going to be her destiny? A horde of guys passed her by, laughing and shoving each other, and she ducked her head low as she consulted her map, trying to blend into the wall. Where the heck was the room for her history class?

  "Lost?"

  She looked up to see a brown haired boy smiling at her. He was dressed in the school uniform, a basic charcoal grey set with the top two buttons of his white collar shirt unfastened. She nodded shyly and asked, "Do you happen to know where Mr. Friedman's room is?"

  He grinned and jabbed a thumb to her right. She smiled gratefully and started to run off in the direction he directed, stumbling a bit as she remembered to call over her shoulder, "Thank you!"

  * * *

  Jack stepped into Friedman's class and plopped down into a seat next to Vincent. Mischief lit up his face. "Met him."

  Vincent raised an eyebrow and said coolly, "And?"

  "He's currently running off campus."

  Vincent sat back in his seat and chuckled. "Wonder how long it'll take him to turn around."

  "I'm thinking not until after the class is over. He seems pretty naive."

  Another boy with long dark hair and hazel eye sitting across the aisle leaned forward in his seat and frowned. "You two running him off so fast?"

  Jack rolled his eyes, "You just want to see if he's cute first, pervert."

  A broad grin slipped across Will's face. "Well, it doesn't hurt to check out if he's my type." Will's sexual preference was known across campus, openly bisexual and openly lascivious. With a disturbingly unique sense of humor, he was a close friend to Vincent and Jack - after they made it clear that they had no interest in returning any lewd suggestions of his.

  They stopped talking when Tristan and his group walked in. Vincent tipped his head to one side, scowling at the blonde boy while the latter pointedly ignored him as he walked to the other side of the room. Marvin followed closely behind, glaring fiercely.

  Mr. Friedman walked in shortly after and closed the door. A tall, stern man with bifocals thicker than his folders, he was easily everybody's most hated teacher. He cleared his throat loudly and barked, "Class, sit down and be quiet so I can get started -"

  The door suddenly banged open and Sam came stumbling in, gasping for air. Mr. Friedman's face darkened with a scowl. Drawing up to his full height, he snapped, "I take it you're Sam Westlane, the new student?"

  Sam couldn't say anything. She wheezed and nodded furiously.

  "Seeing as you're new, I guess it would be my duty to inform you that the other Crestan teachers and I do not appreciate any tardiness," Mr. Friedman warned. "And when you are late, we expect a proper excuse and an apology." Folding his arms, he waited pointedly.

  Sam gasped out, "I – I'm sorry . . . I – was late – cause – a – someone – I – I'm just sorry – I didn't know –"

  "Perhaps you'll like to talk without stuttering, Mr. Westlane? I don't believe in students spluttering gibberish when they talk to me."

  Sam turned pink. "I –" She stopped when her eyes fell on her roommate. He was sitting near the back, staring at her coolly with his arms folded in front of him, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Her gaze moved to the boy sitting next to him and her eyes widened in recognition. The brown haired boy made
a show of winking at her, grinning insolently.

  "Mr. Westlane, may you please redirect your attention to me? Mr. Jack Worthing is a friendly fellow but you may make your acquaintances after class."

  Her face reddened even more. Someone whispered, "Queer." The class erupted into snickers. Her eyes fell upon the short, sleazy kid who had pushed her this morning and he sneered. Sitting next to him was the blonde haired boy she had crashed into. His icy blue eyes stared lazily into hers and he rested his chin in the palm of his hand.

  She stiffened and though her first instinct was to lower her head and bury herself into a hole in the ground, she tried to keep her head lifted. Jerks. She mumbled, "I'm sorry, Mr. Friedman. I got lost on the campus. It won't happen again."

  He nodded abruptly, but his eyes were still filled with displeasure and disdain. He said, "You may take a seat now."

  Sam looked around the room and decided to take a seat in the empty middle row that seemed to divide the class into two parts: her roommate's and the side of the boy she crashed into. She sat down in the front seat, feeling everyone's gazes burning into her back. Face still rosy with humiliation, she plucked a notebook out of her bag and tried to ignore her classmates.

  * * *

  "The Renaissance means the rebirth of culture. However, this doesn't mean the Middle Age was . . ." Mr. Friedman droned on. Vincent tuned him out and turned his gaze on his roommate again. A lazy smile quirked on his lips. He was a bit surprised that the kid hadn't immediately pointed fingers and tattled on Jack. Not that it would do anything except earn him more derision from the rest of the class and most likely, from Mr. Friedman as well, but most newcomers generally tried to seek help from the authorities first thing. Vincent wondered if it was because the new kid had spunk or if he was actually so cowardly, he was too scared to tattle.

  Will whispered, "Your roommate is cute. I like him."