Page 4 of Outcast

“Sure.” My smile tightened. How could the assistant of an assistant help me if she was in another country in an even further away timezone? “I appreciate it.”

Marissa walked down the hallway making as much noise as she could with her heels. I clasped my hands behind my back and turned to a portrait of a man dressed in armor, head bowed and holding a sword between his stretched hands. Hopefully, nobody would think the noise had come from my school loafers.

The secretary returned with a mousy-haired girl about my age whose Hooters girl curves strained through her blazer. Without meaning to, my gaze flickered down to my own B cups. Girls like her made me feel like a stalk of corn. Tall and thin with golden hair. At about five-feet-six, she stood four inches shorter than me, and yet somehow managed to look down her upturned nose at me as if I were a turd stuck to her Manolos. Her hazel eyes flickered up and down my body, then her thin lips tightened with disdain.

A rush of irritation scattered across my skin. Who did this girl think she was? The Queen of Mercia, probably.

“Emilia Hobson,” said the secretary. “May I introduce you to Charlotte Underwood. Charlotte is a prefect at Elder House and will give you a tour of the grounds and show you to your room.” The secretary scurried to her seat and picked up the phone. Probably to act as though she wasn’t listening to whatever Charlotte would say.

I held out my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

The corners of her mouth twitched with disgust. “I have no doubt of that.”

My hackles rose. “What does that mean?”

“Don’t you observe social niceties in America, Hobson?” She tossed her head, nearly whacking me across the eyes with her ponytail, and strode down the hallway.

“Usually, we say that we’re pleased to meet someone,” I replied through clenched teeth.

Her head tilted to one side, lips stretched in a tight, condescending smile. “Here, we say, ‘how do you do?’”

My brows furrowed. “How do you do what?”

She rolled her eyes. “Clearly, I’ll have to sign you up for etiquette lessons. Where did you go to school?”

“New York.” I was beginning to miss Park Prep already, where the mean girls threw insults, not patronizing puzzles.

She paused abruptly by a gold-framed portrait of a man in a long, white wig who seemed to look down at us with stern disapproval. “I mean where did you go to school? Charterhouse, Rugby, Shrewsbury?”

I’d be damned if I would admit to not knowing any of those places. “You wouldn’t have heard of it. It’s a small, exclusive prep school in Manhattan.”

Charlotte sniffed. “I’ve heard the island is a rat-infested dump.”

“Funny,” I said. “Someone said the same about this place, but it’s lovely. I guess only the gullible repeat unfounded rumors.”

Charlotte gave me one of those tight smiles that said, touché, bitch… stand by while I upgrade my shade-throwing game. As we descended the stairs, she launched into an explanation that this was the main building, where all the classical lessons were taught, such as Latin, Classical Greek, Mathematics, Philosophy, and Literature.

We left through the back doors and walked along a pathway lined with magnolia trees, whose leaves had turned amber in the fall. The sun shone through their canopy, making the leaves glimmer like gold. On our left lay a square of lawn the size of ten football fields bordered by a number of old buildings that could have each been grand mansions.

She pointed out the art block, the drama block, the gymnasium, and the science block, explaining that wealthy alumni and other donors had funded the expansion of the school over the centuries. I clamped my lips together to hold back gasps at the historical sights. Even the newest of the buildings were older than anything found at home.

“Where did you say your family was from?” she asked, “New England?”

I tried not to gape at a building whose pillars reminded me of the New York Public Library. “Manhattan.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I heard the—”

“Underwood,” said a cultured voice from behind. It was as smooth as dark coffee, and gave me a jolt.

I turned around to find the trio of handsomeness walking a mere twenty feet behind us. My heart flip-flopped, and I took deep breaths to cool down the excited flush shooting up to my cheeks.

Charlotte smirked. “These three are also in Elder House.”

“For our sins.” The black-haired boy flashed a grin of gleaming, white teeth, making me catch my breath. He looked even more handsome in the sun with his tanned skin, thick eyebrows, and dimpled chin. If this was a production of Cinderella, he’d be Prince Charming. Tall, dark, and horny. “I’m Blake. Blake Simpson-West.”

“How do you do?” My words came out a little stilted.

His face broke out into a wolfish smile, as though I’d said something stupid. I glanced at Charlotte, whose smirk of triumph made me want to slap myself upside the head. Who the hell asked people ‘how do you do’? What did that even mean?