It’s hard to describe, but even though she’s there among us, she’s not. She holds her head up so high it’s a wonder she can see anything at all. She has a far-off look in her eyes that says she’s above what’s going on around her. Like she can’t be bothered with such pedestrian, mundane activities like speaking to one’s classmates.
But after talking to her, after seeing her with her hair less than perfect and in her pajamas…I can’t quite reconcile this untouchable princess with the girl in the rec room. And even though I don’t want to, I feel bad for her.
I throw down my pen and give up even pretending that I’m taking notes. I haven’t managed to read the last three paragraphs because my mind has been wandering. I instantly regret that I stopped pretending to read because it seems Trent is still on about Avery.
“I’m going to ask her out,” he’s saying.
I hold back my groan. Poor Avery. No, screw that. I shouldn’t be feeling sorry for ‘poor’ Avery. She’s richer than I’ll ever be and has the kind of connections and power that only A-holes like Trent have at this age.
They’d probably be perfect for one another.
“I think I’ll ask her to Dorman’s party this weekend,” he says. “You’re going, right?”
I shrug. I rarely go to house parties since I see enough of these people on campus as it is. Dorman is one of the guys who lives close enough that he spends every weekend at home. Probably half the school leaves on the weekends—if they’re not close enough to escape every weekend then at least once or twice a month.
My family is in Brooklyn, and I take the train back to visit about once a month, tops. I can’t afford to be taking trips whenever I want, and besides, the weekends are the best times to get work done—school work and my night job that pays all the bills my scholarship doesn’t pay.
Trust me, room and board adds up quickly, and if I want to have any shot at going off to a decent college, I need to have some money tucked away in savings too.
Dorman, AKA Greg Dorman, son of a golf star, with his nearby mansion, oodles of money, and infrequent parental supervision, is pretty much our version of Gatsby.
“I’ve got to ask her before Brandon does,” he says.
Brandon’s another one of the giant D-bags in our school and Trent’s main frenemy. I still can’t tell if they’re friends or rivals, and I don’t really care. All I know is, I feel bad for any girl who gets caught in their penis-comparing competitions. By the sounds of it, poor Avery is already caught between them, and she doesn’t even know it.
No, not poor Avery. Ah hell. Just Avery. Ice Queen Avery, if anything—that’s another one of the nicknames I’ve heard slung around these past two days. Anything but ‘poor.’
“I wish I knew her schedule,” Trent says. I swear, if I have to hear one more word about Avery I’m going to implode, so I cut him off.
“Hey man, I’ve got that check for you.”
“Sweet, dude.” Trent doesn’t really care. His father gives him tons of money, which is why when he started doing the audiobook narration thing as part of some weird new dream about being a voiceover actor, he didn’t stick with it. If he needed money he would have, but he didn’t, and he’d grown bored after about two seconds, like he always does with every half-assed venture or art project.
I’d been desperate, plain and simple. So, when he was bitching and moaning about having to finish reading some stupid book about pirates and stuff, I offered to do it for him. And the rest is history, I guess. It works out well for both of us. Trent gets the gigs based on his name and that pretty-boy face, and I get the bulk of the money.
He’s psyched to have something on his resume, and it gets his dad off his back about silly things like ‘work ethic’ and a ‘respect for money,’ and I get… Well, I just get money. That’s all it’s about for me. But I get money without having to market myself or work overly hard, and I get to make my own schedule to boot.
Trent’s face and name do all the marketing for us, and in exchange, I hand over a very small cut of the income. Win-win.
My change in conversation does the trick, and I manage to slip out of the room without having to hear any more about the new girl who is apparently stalking me.
She’s not, obviously. But it feels that way since I seem to constantly see her or think about her or hear about her nonstop. Even now it’s a Friday night, and I cannot avoid this chick.
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why boarding schools are for the birds. There is just no escape—from that A-hole jock who likes to pick on you, from the catty bitches who live to gossip, or from the new girl who’s invading every spare inch of my brain these days.
She’s there, just outside the cafeteria, looking at her phone with her lips slightly pursed in a way that gives new meaning to the term haughty. She’s giving everyone a show, whether she realizes it or not, as she hovers there outside the doors, seemingly entranced by a text or something.
Or not.
Just as I draw close, I realize that her gaze keeps darting over toward the door.
Is she…? No, she can’t possibly be nervous. But then again…
Before I know what I’m doing, my feet are taking me over to her. She’s even taller in the heels she’s sporting. She’s dressed like she should be on a runway with her black leather coat and skintight pants. Her earrings dangle to her shoulders. But it’s her eyes that hypnotize me. They make me freeze when I’ve almost reached her side.
No wonder even Trent hasn’t had the balls to ask her out yet. She’s freakin’ scary.
Not like Freddy Krueger scary, but like supermodel scary.
I remind myself of what she looked like the other night, of the way she’d made fun of my admittedly hipster glasses and devoured that chocolate bar like it was the first time she’d eaten in days.
It’s the last thought that finally gets me over the weird frozen hump between us. “Are you waiting for an invitation?” I intentionally keep my tone light and snarky because if my hunch is right and she is scared to go into that cafeteria, I don’t want to let on that I feel bad for her.
No one likes to be pitied, not even a girl who’s almost impossible to pity.
Almost.
She gives me a small smile that knocks the wind out of me, but I think I cover it well. Or maybe not…
“Are you okay?” She squints at me as I choke on air as I recover from that killer smile which is so much more dazzling in the light of day.
Side note: I’ve never used the word dazzling. Ever. That’s the first time I’ve ever used it, but that’s how epic her smile is.
I lead the way in toward the line and try not to notice how all eyes are trained on us or the way the voices around us turn to hushed whispers or stop altogether.
Most, but not all.
“I don’t think she’s all that hot,” I hear Vanessa say from her table of demon spawn and witches who’re sitting close enough to the cafeteria line for us to hear every word they say.
One of her friends lets out a muffled laugh at Vanessa’s bravado in speaking so loudly. That only eggs her on. “Seriously,” she says in the kind of bitchy tone typically reserved for bad soap opera villains. “She’s freakish, like a Barbie came to life or something.”
“Talk about plastic surgery gone wrong,” one of her friends says with a giggle. Clearly, she’s impressed by her own daring in saying something like that loudly enough for the Barbie in question to hear.
But if Avery hears them, she doesn’t let on. There’s no way she doesn’t hear, but when I glance over she’s staring at her food options like the mac ‘n’ cheese has just started speaking to her and she’s trying to decipher this foreign cheesy language.
“How’s the pizza?” she asks in that soft, breathy voice of hers when she catches me staring.
“Uh…” I’m not nearly as good at ignoring the blatant rudeness in our midst but if that’s the way she wants to play it…
I mean, it’s not my battle to fight, right?
This might be a preppy, elite, artsy high school, but it’s still a high school. Which means the social structure is inherently in place and it’s survival of the fittest at its most fundamental level. If I stick up for her now, she’ll look weak and pathetic and I’ll… Well, I’ll be somehow tied to this girl more than I already am.
She arches her brows.
Right. Pizza. “Um, it’s all right. Nothing like what I get at home, but it’s the best you’ll get in these parts.”
She reaches for a slice. After hesitating for a half second, she snatches up another.
We both ignore the “pig” comment coming from the peanut gallery behind us.
“Where’s home?” she asks.
We make our way to the next food station where we both bypass the unknown gel-like substance that may or may not be the dessert option for the day.
I tell her about Brooklyn and that eases the tension a bit. She asks a few questions, and it’s clear she knows her way around New York. When she guesses what subway line I’m off of based on the neighborhood, I shoot her a sidelong look. “You ride the subway?”
She grins, and the curve of sparkling white teeth and lush lips is there and gone with all its dazzling glory before anyone but me could see. “I used to when I lived there.”
“That’s right,” I say, nudging her elbow with mine. “Holly Golightly.”
She lets out a little snort of amusement that is so adorably not in keeping with her ice queen image that it makes me grin down at the pizza on my tray like a giant dork.
We each pay for our super delicious looking meal—and by that I mean plateful of grease—and I start to head toward the table I normally sit at in the corner.
“I should head back to my room,” she says warily. I stop in the middle of the cafeteria, finally noticing that she’s not keeping pace beside me. It’s Friday evening which means it’s not even close to full in here, but I still feel like we’re on a stage. Everyone is watching, and now I know without a doubt that’s why she’s leaving.
I walk the few steps back toward her, where she’s paused, looking like a model posing on the runway, though I can’t tell if she means to look striking or if she just can’t help it. Also, most runway poses probably don’t include a tray full of gross cafeteria pizza, but you get my point. I’m staring at her—hell, the whole cafeteria is staring at her—but she’s eyeing the exit, and I just know she’s trying to figure out the fastest way to bolt.
“Eat with me,” I say.
Well, crap. That didn’t come out right. I’m not good at this whole ‘nice’ thing, but it pisses me off to see these people winning. I barely know this girl, and she could very well be worse than all the rest of them put together, but I still hate to see bullies win and that is exactly what’s happening here.
She blinks at me, and for the first time outside the rec room, I see a flicker of uncertainty. The mask slips just the tiniest bit. “Are you sure you want to be seen with me?”
“I’ll take my chances.” I don’t wait for her to debate the issue; I turn and walk toward the table, and after a second I feel her behind me.
We eat in silence for a while, and there’s no way she’s not hearing the whispers, which eventually are replaced by the normal chatter. Once the novelty of her appearance at dinner has waned, life goes on as normal for everyone at Trudale.
Everyone except me. Because I normally sit alone. By choice. I typically listen to music on my earbuds or read a book or… Basically, I do anything but interact with my peers. Or make small talk.
I am so not about making small talk.
My dinner partner doesn’t seem to mind. She’s eating in silence, and it’s not horrible. It’s almost…comfortable now that we’re not the center of attention.
When she breaks the silence, I almost jump. “Are you going to be around this weekend?”
I stare at her for a second because the question is so unexpected. “Uh, yeah. I don’t go home on the weekends very often.” I almost ask “why?” but I don’t. “What about you?” I ask instead.
“Yeah, I’ll be here,” she says.
I stop myself from asking why for the second time. She could leave if she wanted to. She clearly has the money to jet off wherever she wants to go, and it’s equally clear that she’s not happy here. So why is she sticking around?
We watch each other as we chew on our pizza. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s definitely not normal. “Do you always eat in silence?” I ask.
One side of her mouth quirks up, and her eyes dance with laughter. It’s freakin’ mesmerizing. “Do you?” she asks.
I lift one shoulder in a shrug, and we’re back to our silent standoff. I don’t know what she’s thinking about, but I’m thinking about the upcoming weekend. More specifically, I’m fixated on the fact that Trent wants to ask her to go to that party tomorrow night.
Is it my duty to tell her what a jerk he is? Should I warn her? These are the weird, first-in-a-lifetime concerns I’m dealing with when she blurts out another non sequitur. “I think my roommate hates me.”
I burst out in a laugh. I can’t help it, her voice is just so flat like she doesn’t really care, and the words were so very unexpected. I’m rewarded with another smile. A small one this time that’s surprisingly rueful. One might even say it was self-deprecating.
“Shocking, I know,” she murmurs as she takes another bite.
Yup. She’s making fun of herself, of her reputation. My like for her intensifies a million times over. Not that I like her. You know what I mean. She’s at least able to laugh at herself, and that’s something. Actually, that’s everything. At a place like Trudale, finding people who can laugh at themselves is almost as difficult as finding a person who wears non-designer clothes.
“I haven’t seen you around the common room the past couple nights,” I say. “So clearly she lets you use your bed.”
It’s a not-so-subtle nudge for information. It’s not like I’ve been actively seeking her out when I head to the TV room every night—it was my midnight haven before she ever came along. But I’m not going to deny that every night I’m just a little bit hopeful that I’ll run into her.
Not hopeful. That sounds pathetic. But it’s been over a year of being on my own in this place and having someone to talk to, to watch a movie with…it wasn’t awful.
She tilts her head from side to side as she finishes chewing her last bite. “Yeah, well, she hasn’t set fire to my bed or anything, but she either pretends to be asleep when I enter or she bolts as soon as I walk in.”
She’s still playing it off like she doesn’t care, but I can tell that she’s subtly nudging me just like I’d done to her.
Unlike her, I cave. “Who’s your roommate?”
She swipes at the corner of her mouth, and her eyes meet mine. “Charlotte Glenn?”
She says the girl’s name like it’s a question and at the mention of the shyest girl on the planet, I laugh. “She doesn’t hate you,” I say. “She’s shy.”
Her brows furrow slightly. “She’s shy?”
I nod and then give her a teasing grin. “I mean, she might also hate you, but I doubt it.”
The way she lifts one brow ever so slightly says that she is not amused.
“Charlotte is super sweet,” I continue. “Just really quiet. We both had to take a requisite science class last year and we were lab partners.”
She’s still watching me. Finally, she sets down her pizza. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
She nods. “Thank you.”
I feel like I’ve been dismissed. But not in a mean way. Both of our plates are empty, and there’s nothing more to do here. “I’m heading back to my room,” I say, nodding in the general direction of our dorm. “You coming?”
She shakes her head, coming to stand as well. “I need to head to the library first.”
“Library on a Friday night?” I tease. “You’re a real wild child.”
She smirks as she follows me to the ga
rbage can at the doorway. “And you’re heading to your dorm room.”
“Touché.” I turn and glance back just to make sure I’m not leaving her in the lions’ den, but the demons’ spawn table has disbanded, and no one seems to be watching us any longer. “I’ll catch you later, Sinclair.”
She nods but then her voice stops me. “Wait. You never answered me the other night.”
I arch my brows in question but I know exactly what she’s referring to and I have the distinct sinking feeling in my gut that says she’s not going to let this go. “When do you want to start working on our project?”
I shift my bookbag on my shoulder. I’d brought down a book to read and never cracked it open thanks to this girl. “Seriously,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”
I try to sound easy about it, but just the mention of our year-end project has me uncomfortable. That discomfort is going to quickly shift to bitter anger if I don’t get out of here.
We’d had a couple of nice chats but that doesn’t change the fact that she lives in a different world, possibly on another planet, definitely in an alternate universe.
All I have to do is think about how Mr. Anderson all but assured her an A while giving her a complete and total pass for doing any work and my body tenses with bitter anger.
She’s staring at me with a little frown that somehow makes her even prettier. No, that’s not even possible. She can’t possibly be prettier, and there’s no way her frown is prettier than her smile.
As I’m debating the beauty merits of this girl’s mouth twitches, she’s crossing her arms and leveling me with a look. “That’s the second time you’ve said that,” she says. “Don’t worry about it.” She lowers her voice an octave and adds just a hint of a Brooklyn accent. My lips are trying to curve upward against my will and I fight it.
I force my mind back on the topic at hand and any amusement fades fast. “Look,” I say with a weary sigh. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to spell it out for her, but it looks like that’s the only way to get out of this. “You’re not going to be able to work on the project for long, right? And it doesn’t really matter what you do anyway because you’re going to get a good grade. We both know that.”
Audible Love: A Young Adult Romance Page 5
