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“We may not be able to change your classes after this week. But with advance placements in English and art, you have plenty to do already.” She prints my schedule and hands it to me. “You’re on the last floor. Single room.”
“Really?” I try not to groan.
Ms. Casey beams at me, like she’s delivering good news. There’s only one floor with single rooms—enough for about half of the senior class—and these rooms are prized. In truth, I would have much preferred to room with Sophia.
“Thanks.”
“You’re going to need a pass.” Ms. Casey glances at the big grandfather clock in her otherwise modern office. “Actually, it looks like you’ll be missing first period overall. I’ll send a message to your teacher. Head over to your second period now, and try not to be late again this week.”
I nod and thank her again. Other than for assemblies, this school is generally pretty chill about the occasional tardy.
I get out of the room, still a little disappointed, and also confused. It is peculiar that I was allotted a single room when I didn’t even request one. Usually, the prerogative goes to students whose parents donate a hefty amount to the library or the stables. Maybe I’m the token poor kid on the upper floor, to pretend that favoritism doesn’t come into play with room assignments. It’s still strange that it was given to me, when I asked to share.
I suppose Sophia might have requested to be alone this year. We never talked about it. We were assigned together randomly on sophomore year and became fast friends. The two subsequent years, she and I asked to share a room again. I simply assumed we would do the same our senior year, but she might have had other plans.
It’d be fine. It’d be like home again. Besides, Sophia was terribly untidy.Still, it felt like losing a security blanket.
I wait a few minutes for the bus, checking my phone, hoping to catch up on the notification on SnapApp.
My phone takes a while to turn on; at first, I don’t think it will at all, but when it does, my jaw falls open. It’s empty. Completely wiped clean. There’s no picture, no apps—everything is gone, even my screen saver.
Cain. He’s somehow managed to do that to my phone from his. I have to reset my credentials everywhere. Thankfully, I only use three variations of the same password. It’s easy enough to get it up and running.
To satisfy paranoid parents, the school pays for a private server for the student body—we need a student ID to sign in, although they say our communications aren’t monitored. I don’t believe a word of it; I’d never post anything here that I wouldn’t be comfortable telling a teacher, so my own feed is basically empty. Still, it helps me stay in touch with what’s going on at Cross.
The bulk of my peers have no problem plastering their lives on our private social media. I see shots of their holidays, their new cars, Louboutin pumps, and more.
I suppose nothing much has happened so far. Last year, it was full of half-naked shots under the bleachers, or blurry pictures of girls straddling faceless guys. The bus arrives, and I pocket my phone, bracing myself.
Time to return to reality.
A reality where I've royally pissed off the four kings of this place. And I’m about to walk back into the lion’s den.
CHAPTER FIVE
I take a moment to study my schedule at the steps in front of the U. It looks like I missed Calculus. I wince. What sort of sadist would set up Calculus for first period? Next, I have Italian, then two hours of AP Literature, so the morning improves at least. Lunch is at twelve thirty, followed by Gym, a free period, and AP Art. The regular swim team meets from five thirty to six thirty. Dinner is served from six thirty to eight, and for seniors, there is a strict curfew at ten thirty. We'd gained half an hour since last year.
That meant I was free from six-thirty to ten thirty. Homework would kick my ass senior year, of course, but maybe Ms. Casey had a point; I could shoulder another elective that made my transcript stronger so long as the timing worked out.
The first bell rings and I make my way to Italian, absentmindedly scrolling through the school website to see if there's something suitable during my free period, whenabruptly, someone throws their arms around me. I grin, already knowing who it is. My list of friends is short, and only one of them smells like vanilla cupcake.
Sure enough, I glance over my shoulder to see Sophia Vaughn. "See? I'm still alive."
"Alive and late." She couldn't sound more judgmental if she tried. "On our first day."
"Car troubles," I sum up.
"Again?" She winces. "You got swindled with that car."
I refuse to acknowledge that. She might have a point, but dammit, I'm going to enjoy the fact that Ihavea car, at least. She doesn't get it because her parents had a pink Jeep under a big red bow at her sweet sixteen—brand new, of course. I never would have dared to ask for a car. Dad's always worried about bills, especially after the various lockdowns in the last few years. Mom's a spender; she wears a new pair of shoes or handbag every month, which is just rude when he stays up until two in the morning most nights to provide for us. I know Mom has her own money from her former career, but I don't let her spend too much of it on me. I used to think that if she wanted to dip into her savings, she can do it to pay the damn mortgage.
Mom came to me with the offer at the beginning of the summer: she'd double whatever I could save for my car. I refused initially, because I felt terrible about spending money we might need to keep a roof over our heads. When I implied as much, she laughed. "Honey, if Sandro let me, I would have paid off the townhouse ages ago. You knowAstrella men—all pride, little sense. Let me do this for you, yes? So you can pick something that runs."
Paid off the house? I have no clue how much Mom has, but I wouldn't have guessed that much, though I suppose she did quite well. A ballet dancer, she toured the world for years before getting pregnant with me and setting her career aside. She teaches lessons at a local ballet school in Queens now.
I accepted the deal, though her plan turned out to be a bit of a fail. Hulk—as I called my Mini—was a disaster. Even I knew that if a car broke down twice, it sucked.
As I daydream about Hulk, wondering when Mom and Dad can finally drive it up to me,Sophia yanks my crumpled schedule out of my hand and skims it.
