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Her face falls and she groans.
"That look doesn't exactly inspire confidence," I remark, wincing. "What's the damage?"
As I wait for the verdict, I take her in.
I've seen her twice this summer for a coffee. Between my work and her travels, we can rarely catch up during the vacations.
Sophia’s a year younger than me, but she doesn't look it; back when we met sophomore year, she had generous DDs when I could still have worn a training bra. Two years later, she's a curvaceous bombshell, not that anyone except me seems to realize it. She isn't comfortable in her skin, so her clothes are a fair bit baggier than they need to be, drowning her frame. As much as I keep trying to convince her that she needs to flaunt her hell of a rack, she never listens to me. Her hair is gorgeous, too—dark and wavy. She tanned this summer, and the glow makes her more beautiful than ever. I wish she could see herself the way I do.
Though I suppose she'd say the same thing about me. She's all compliments, when as far as I can see, there's nothing special about my brownish hair, my brownish eyes—though they do occasionally feel like turning green—and no amount of pasta or doughnuts has helped softening my frame. I'm cute at best. More a girl than a woman. I look like my mother in her old pictures, so I might turn out to be pretty as I age, but for now, I'm just an awkward tomboy.
“One class. That’s it.” She shoves my schedule back in my hand, as if the slip of paper burned her.
Shit. That's worse than the rooming issue.
As annoyed as I am about this—because who doesn’t want every class with their closest school friend?—Sophia looks downright terrified. Her lower lip is trembling and she twists her fingers in her hands nervously.
I’m not rich enough to have many friends here, but people leave me alone; I'm beneath the general notice. Sophia has a different set of problems; she's been bullied for years, mostly because of her sister Brooke and Brooke’s posse.
Just thinking about that bitch makes my blood boil. I don't have a sibling, but I can't imagine treatinganyrelative the way Brooke treats Sophia. The two sisters are nothing alike, inside or out. Brooke has dyed her hair blonde since she was twelve, I think, and the chemicals must’ve done something to her brain because thefunny, sweet, intelligent genes completely skipped her. Though eighteen months apart, both of them have been in the same year as long as I've known them because Sophia skipped a grade. Which could be one of the reasons why Brooke dislikes her so much. Sophia, with her straight As, is the pride and joy of their heart-surgeon dad. Brooke, not so much.
“This year is going to suck ass,” Sophia mutters.
“It’ll be fine." I can't even convince myself of that; not after what happened this morning. "We’ll make the most of it.”
Somehow.
“You can leave campus,” Sophia whines. “I’ll be stuck here, and—”
“Well, I don't have a car to get out of here for now," I remind her. "But when I get Hulk back, I'll bring you iced coffees."
She manages a weak smile as the bell rings, and we have to scramble to take our seats.
Day one, we talk about the curriculum; the rest of the week, we'll be reviewing what we learned last year.
It doesn’t take long for me to realize that this year is going to be challenging; we have twice the workload we did last year in Italian—one of my best subjects. The prep school isn't the best of the best just because the student body looks like models from the glossy pages of Vogue. It's great because our teachers are second to none. A B- from here is rated higher than an A from my old public school in Brooklyn.
I’ll forever be in Uncle Lucius's debt for being willing to foot the bill for tuition, although he won't hear of it. He's always been generous and kind to us. In many ways, I'm closer to Uncle Lucius than to my busy father. Though he ran his own company, Lucius had the time—and the extra funds—to take my cousin and me bowling or sailing on weekends. Or maybe he just took the time. As he often said, "family is everything" to him.
I glance over at Sophia. She's already taking notes, though Signora Di Maio is just babbling on about the spring trip, her native Italian slower so as to be understood by everyone. Mine's rusty. Dad and Uncle Lucius speak to Lucas and I in English, and Mom alternates between English and Spanish, as she’s from Mexico. As a kid, our Nonna spoke to us solely in Italian. My tongue can twist over the language with some ease thanks to her, but I'm far from fluent—unlike my cousin.
Still,I'm sketching rather than paying attention. I know I won't go on the trip—it will probably cost tens of thousands, and I'm not asking Uncle Lucius. Or Dad. Or Mom.
Maybe Mom had a point about the Astrella pride. Though my surname's Reyes, as my parents weren't married yet when I was born, I have inherited my fair share of it.
Italian flies by, lost in my doodles, and soon, it’s time for my English class. Next is lunch. That, I'm looking forward to.
I slide into a free seat toward the middle of the class. The front is where all of the brainy kids and suck-ups sit, and the back is for troublemakers and rebels. In the middle, you're overlooked, which is fine by me.
I'm already doodling, waiting for the last bell, when my fingers pause over my notebook. Feeling a gaze on me, I lift my eyes.
Jason's standing just a few feet away from me, staring silently. Cain's behind him, his smirk just as amused as he was earlier this morning.
Oh no.
CHAPTER SIX
Cain chuckles.Fuck. I didn't mean to say that out loud. Showing weaknesses and fear to the likes of him was like bleeding in shark-infested water.
