Fury. Bright-hot, bitter anger is first and foremost. I have to clench my hands and take a breath to keep from lashing out as it burns through me fierce and ugly. This. This right here is what I hate about this school. It’s what I hate about the world.
This is privilege at its finest.
But even before that initial surge of hate dies down, my brain kicks into gear with a cold calculation that makes me feel a little psychotic. Like, for one brief second, I’m all clinical analysis à la Sherlock Holmes. And this is what I realize.
Having Avery in my film means instant success. Is it right? Is it fair? Hell no. But then, nothing about this world ever is. And by ‘this world’ I mean the actual world, but also this microcosm in which I exist and must succeed or be screwed when graduation day rolls around.
After all, the system is rigged. It’s one big popularity contest around here. I know that. I’ve always known that. So why not play the game for once? Why not do what it takes to get ahead?
I could be all up on my high horse, or I could get a chance to hobnob with the movers and shakers of the world.
“Yeah, okay,” I say as evenly as I can. I’m still filled with hot anger, but I try not to let it show.
Mr. Anderson gives me a beaming smile like I’ve just made his day with that grudging acceptance of this idiotic plan.
“Great!” He claps his hands together and my guess is he’s planning on continuing, but I’m already walking away.
There’s fake and then there’s fake, and I just can’t bring myself to pretend that I’m happy about this team-up. It’s bad enough that I said yes, I’m sure as hell not going to say I’m excited to work with the Hollywood bimbo who has no need for this school or this film.
I’m out of there before either of them can say anything more to me. I don’t want to pretend like we’re actually going to be working together, especially because we all know the truth.
We might be paired together, but only one of us is going to be doing the work.
Chapter Three
Avery
Well, I survived my first day of classes, so that’s something, right?
I have a pretty light course load, partly because I’m too late to enter into some classes but mainly because my homeschool tutors are aggressively good at what they do. They make sure that I’m ahead of the game grade-wise, and being the solo student for these intense one-student teachers means there’s no such thing as slipping through the cracks.
Plus, I read. It’s what I do. So, you know, I’m not a total idiot though everyone seems to think I am.
I’m pretty sure my new partner in film class thinks I am. It wasn’t so much what he said—because honestly, he said very little at all. It was the way he’d looked at me.
I’m used to prying eyes, I’m well-acquainted with stares and leers and narrowed gazes. But nothing had prepared me for Seth’s look of utter disdain when he’d realized we’d be paired together.
I toss my satchel full of books onto my bed. I wish I could go home.
I know, I know. I’ve only been here for one full day and I’m already ready to go home? Pathetic. But I could desperately use some alone time to digest everything that’s happened and all the new people I’ve met.
First lesson of being a student once again? High school is no place for an introvert.
Especially at a boarding school. There’s nowhere to hide. Literally, nowhere.
I made a monumental mistake two months ago. At that point, I’d been so excited to win the argument with my mom that allowed me to enroll at Trudale that I’d been riding that triumphant high like it was a drug.
To be fair, it’s very rare that I win any arguments with my mother so it had been a banner day for me. So much so that I’d gotten this crazy notion that I could be just like every other high school student on the planet—or, at least, just like every spoiled Hollywood brat at this school. That was why I insisted on staying in the dorms.
With a roommate.
Why? Seriously, what had I been thinking? The dean of admissions had offered to find me a single suite. He’d make one available, he’d said. I had to assume that meant he’d kick someone out of the one they’d scored, so I’d gone ahead and said no, feeling gracious and triumphant and smug and…
Idiotic.
I can see now why I’m the biggest idiot on the planet. My new partner, Seth, is right to think I’m an imbecile, which he clearly does.
I stare at the door warily waiting for my roommate to appear. It’s not that she was mean yesterday when I showed up with my boxes and bags.
She’d stuck her hand out, ducking her head down so her face was partially hidden behind her long dark brown hair.
“Charlotte,” she said so quietly I almost didn’t catch it. Between the quiet voice and the It hairstyle à la The Addams Family, I’m not sure if she said anything else. She dropped my hand like it was hot and bolted from the room.
So…yeah, that’s cool. My roommate is either afraid of me or thinks I smell bad. Not exactly an auspicious first night.
A resident advisor showed up at my door shortly after Charlotte-the-psycho fled, and she showed me around the campus and the dorm building before depositing me once again on my doorstep with a friendly wave.
Grace, I think she’d said her name was. She was friendly, looked like an athlete…that’s about all I could tell you because she never tried to chat about anything non-school related and neither did I. I’m still not sure if that was my fault or not. I spent an absurd amount of time last night trying to figure out if and when I should have broached a non-school-related topic.
But what?
It’s official. I suck at small talk. I mean, I’ve always known this and Gabe gives me crap about it on a regular basis, but unless I’m talking to someone I’m incredibly close to, I have no idea how to start a conversation.
But that’s why I’m here, right? I mean, isn’t that what school is for? To help people learn how to socialize?
I flop down on my bed as a horrible thought occurs to me. Maybe it’s too late. When people say that stuff, they’re probably talking about grade schoolers, not high school juniors. But it wasn’t my fault that my mom kept me away from anything normal kids did. It wasn’t like I’d asked to go on auditions when I was five rather than play at recess.
I take a deep breath in through my nose and let it out slowly. It’s only day one. I can do this. I shouldn’t expect miracles overnight, right?
I’d give just about anything to talk to Gabe right now, but he’s abroad on tour, and I can’t think of a single other friend who’d get it as well as he would. I do have other friends—I’m not a complete loner—but none who would understand my predicament.
Gabe wouldn’t understand either—he’d spent a solid twenty minutes laughing when I told him I have to take P.E. But he’d at least make me laugh about it.
Anyway, last night when I got back to our room, Charlotte was asleep—or at least pretending to be asleep. Which left me awkwardly getting ready for bed as quietly as humanly possible.
Tonight I don’t know what to do with myself. I’d put on my big girl pants and headed to the cafeteria for some dinner but a) the food looked nasty and b) everyone just stared.
I’ve never really understood those nightmares people say they have about walking into the cafeteria naked.
Now I do.
I pretty much did just that. Who designs these cafeterias? I mean, I’ve seen enough in TV shows and movies to know that the one at Trudale is pretty typical. A giant life-size stage with rows and rows of staring audience members waiting to see what you do.
I’d had this grand notion that I’d sweep in there, pick a table, and make some friends.
In actuality, I grabbed an apple and headed right back out the way I’d come in.
I groan softly up at the ceiling. Sometimes I boggle my own mind with my cowardice.
It’s official…I’m pathetic. I don’t have low self-esteem, so I’m not saying I�
�m a pathetic human being or anything, I just mean I’m pathetic when it comes to being a normal teenager and acting like normal teens act.
There is nothing normal about me, nothing even remotely normal about my life, and it’s extremely possible this whole plan is complete insanity.
Maybe my mom was right. Maybe I’m not cut out for a normal life.
That thought has me pushing myself back upright, and I take a bite of my apple.
My dinner, apparently, unless I want to summon up the courage to take another stab at the cafeteria. I think it over as I munch on my apple and decide I’d rather suffer some hunger pangs than the stares of my peers.
As I sit there cross-legged, watching the door warily lest my weirdo roommate enters and we find ourselves in another awkward silence, I realize that I may have made a mistake. But I cannot and will not say as much to my mother.
Also, I am not a quitter. If I made it through an entire season of Mermaid Tales freezing my butt off in a ridiculous costume that made my entire lower body ache without murmuring a complaint, I sure as hell can make it through one year of high school.
Satisfied that I’m not going to run away anytime soon, I decide the best course of action would be to not dwell on my first day. I mean, it’s a first day. First days always suck—at a line reading, on set, in a new country.
It always takes time to adjust. Once my classmates get used to my presence, it won’t be so weird. And at some point, I’ll make friends. It’s inevitable, right?
Right?
I decide not to dwell on that question either. I already have friends, I don’t need any more. Sure, it would make it a more pleasant year if I wasn’t entirely alone, but I’ve never minded being alone.
Tonight, I relish the aloneness after a day of awkward encounters and even more awkward stares.
And then there were the whispers behind my back that often weren’t even whispers at all.
But again, nothing I’m not used to. And tonight, at least, I get a breather from it all. My roommate stays away for the rest of the evening. When she comes in, I’m in bed with my eyes closed but nowhere close to sleeping.
As of two days ago, I’d been in Japan for a car commercial, and my body still hasn’t adjusted to the time difference. Add to that the fact that my brain is racing with all the unfamiliarity of it all, and it’ll be a long while before I actually drift off.
Still, coward that I am, I keep my eyes shut until I hear her get into bed and snap off her bedside light. Then I continue to lie there for what feels like an eternity. Under normal circumstances, I’d stick my earbuds in and listen to Trent Wagner’s soothing voice as I drift off to sleep.
But, right now, that just feels too weird. I didn’t see Trent on the campus today. Not that I was stalking him or anything, but you know…I had an eye out. Just in case. Even though I have no idea what I’ll do if I see him.
When I see him. This school is not that big. It’s only a matter of time before we meet.
That thought makes sleep a distant, unreachable dream. I have no idea why I’m even trying. I’m lying there antsy and restless, and I need a distraction, but my trusty audiobooks won’t do.
That’s when I remember something the RA told me. There’s a TV in a common area one floor down. According to her, it’s a great place to study because no one is ever in there.
I fling off the blankets, grab a hoodie to throw over my tank top and flannel pajama pants, and pad out into the hallway in my slippers.
The floor is deathly silent, and that just eggs me on to find the TV and some much-needed distraction. I need voices, familiarity, I need to not feel so freakin’ alone.
The sofa isn’t exactly comfortable in the small, efficient room, but the late-night choices are. I flip past a poker tournament, an infomercial, and a rerun of a late-night talk show. I change the channel quickly since Henry is the guest and land on an old movie channel.
I sigh contentedly as Cary Grant flickers on the screen, a face so familiar that, for the first time since I’ve arrived at this place, I feel somewhat at home. I don’t know how long I sit there, long enough for the plot to reach the height of ridiculousness as a leopard gets loose in the suburbs, and long enough for me to forget where I am.
When someone walks into the room with me, I sit up with a start. It’s only by the grace of God that I don’t let out a shriek at the sight of the tall, faceless form hovering just inside the doorway.
He shifts slightly, and the flicker of the black-and-white movie reveals who he is.
Oh hell. It’s my new partner. This is so not how I wanted to see him again. To be honest, I don’t want to see him again at all. I know his type. Without even knowing me he’s judged me and found me wanting.
It’s not that I really care. There are two kinds of haters in my life…well, there are probably way more than that. But it makes my life easier to sort them into two main categories. There are the people who see me, hate me for who they think I am, and they don’t try to hide it. Like this guy.
Then there’s the other kind. They’re the ones who are jealous of my life because they don’t know it. They’re jealous, but they want what they think I can give them, whether it’s popularity by association, or a chance at a great acting job, or access to my lifestyle, which they imagine to be all yachts and beaches and basically paradise on earth.
Those are the worst kind because they’re deceptive. Devious and cunning. Although more often than not I can see their brand of nasty coming from a mile away.
Usually.
It’s the ones who sneak past my radar who really suck. It’s rare for me to let people into my little world, and the few who’ve gotten past my defenses and been welcomed in only to turn around and use me?
It hurts. No, it freakin’ kills.
So yeah, the guy who’s eyeing me warily from the doorway like I’m an oversized bug? I can handle him. It pisses me off that he’s judging me without even a howdy-do, but I’m used to it.
“Sorry,” he mutters under his breath. He starts to walk away, and I have no idea what comes over me, but I find myself stopping him.
“No, it’s okay.”
He stalls in the doorway and I can basically see his inner debate. To walk away without another word would be rude, but to stay would be a special kind of torture since he’s already deemed me to be the empty-headed bimbo from hell that I’m made out to be in the blogosphere.
Fun fact: Anyone can come across as idiotic when their quotes are taken out of context. And trust me, even so-called journalists are only too happy to manipulate sound bites and steer questions to get the quote they want if it means crafting a story to fit the narrative.
And my narrative was written years ago. Child star turned diva teen. Mean girl on set. Stuck-up bubblehead. You get the idea.
Even in the dim lighting, I can see those stories reflected in his gaze just as surely as I see the flicker from the TV in his black horn-rimmed glasses. With that messy dark hair and the retro T-shirts, it would seem I’ve unwittingly made an enemy of the school’s one and only hipster. Oh no, please don’t hurt me with your irony, Mr. Barista.
See, now, if I were truly the catty witch I’m made out to be, I would one hundred percent say that aloud. But I restrain myself because I’m nice. Well, I’m as nice as any other teenager I know. That’s got to count for something.
It feels like ages before he finally opts for awkward togetherness over rude fleeing. He perches on the edge of the couch, and I tuck my feet in to give him ample leeway. To a bystander, it would probably look like we’re cowering in our respective corners as we sit there and watch the TV screen.
I did this. I could have just let him walk away, but instead, I’d had a burst of courage from the part of me that was lonelier here at this new school than I’d care to admit. That part of me that was lonelier than it was wary of people. For the first time in years I’d had a surge of interpersonal courage—I probably made that term up, FYI—and it had to be now, of all t
imes. In the middle of the night on my first real night as a Trudale student. And with this guy, of all people, the only one so far who I’m absolutely positive despises me.
Awesome. What the hell have I done?
After a painful few seconds that feel like years, he shifts at the end of the couch. “Sorry,” he says into the dark. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”
I shrug even though he’s still staring at the screen. “I don’t mind. I just needed to get out of my room.”
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.
“Nope.” I glance over at him again, but he looks bored as he slouches back on the couch. “You?”
He shakes his head. “I’m a night owl. I usually come here to relax and hang out while my roommate’s sleeping.”
I bob my head awkwardly, but hopefully he doesn’t notice since he seems to still be watching the movie.
I do the same, and suddenly I’m doubting my choice of TV stations. I mean, I love old movies but what if I’m being selfish? This is a common room, after all. It occurs to me then that as an only child I have never had to share, and maybe that’s why this feels so weird. I clear my throat a little. “If you wanted to watch something else—”
“No, this is fine.”
Okay then. The witty banter between Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn sounds forced and loud in this small, quiet, tense room.
And then he breaks that silence, suddenly and with a sharp edge. “Do you actually like old movies or was there just nothing else on?”
I don’t miss the fact that his tone sounds like he’s accusing me of something, and I have a hunch he is. The subtext here is he thinks I’m a poser. I know I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. This is not my first time running into someone like Seth. And by that, I mean someone too cool for school. Someone who thinks that everyone else around him is a poser or a loser or a joiner.
I don’t even want to answer him. No that’s not true, part of me wants to answer him in character. Not as my Temptress character, Sadie Wrathmore, but as the character of Avery the Ditzy Diva, which is clearly how he sees me. I could widen my eyes and say something truly vapid. It would solidify his judgment of me, and I’d amuse myself in the process.
Audible Love: A Young Adult Romance Page 3
