There's a satin chaise lounge with a frilly pillow, an oil painting on the wall that I'm pretty sure is not a reproduction, and a small bookshelf stocked with classic novels and topped with a tea and coffee station, plus a bowl of fresh fruit.
Like, who comes into the shower to read and eat apples?
I double, triple, and quadruple check to make sure the door is locked behind me, hang the tiny key on the hook nearby, and get naked.
The walls on the changing stall and shower are a good twelve feet high, but there's no ceiling per se. I can hear the sound of a door opening and closing as the toothbrush boy leaves the room, and then nothing.
Pure silence.
Sighing blissfully, I push past the curtain into the tiled area and stop with one hand still clinging to the fabric.
Right.
“Rich dickheads,” I repeat as I look around at the marble floors, walls, and shower stall. It's got a glass half-door and like four shower heads with some sort of fancy command center. On the wall next to me, there's a sound system that I scroll through, selecting a classic piano song that filters lightly through the speakers.
There are shelves on one wall stocked with shampoo, conditioner, fresh bars of soap wrapped in paper wrappers, brand-new loofahs, scrub brushes, towels, and more. I'm pretty blown away.
“Please take all used items back to your dorm room in a shower caddy. Any used items left will be discarded. Thanks. -Adamson Academy staff.” I glance down and find a row of wooden shower caddies on the bottom shelf, selecting one and setting it aside. Then I take my sweet time picking out my soaps and body washes.
“This shit is so luxe,” I grumble, thinking about how much the lilac and rosemary scented shampoo I'm holding would cost in a salon. And it's just sitting here, free for anyone to take?
Then, of course, I realize how stupid that sounds. Tuition money for a year at Adamson is literally double the yearly wage my father made at his last job. There's only maybe three high schools in the entire country that cost more, and they're all snobby prep schools like Burberry Academy. Gross.
The students here are so rich that stealing something as stupid as a bar of fifty dollar soap (yeah, it's a thing, I know) doesn't actually occur to them.
I take a very, very, very generous amount of items and stuff them into my bag. When I go back to California, I'm taking it all with me. Actually, this weekend, I might go into town and mail Monica and Cody some of this stuff. Monica is pretty wealthy, but nothing like the guys that go here. Not even in the same league.
My fingers trail across the porcelain edge of the giant soaker tub, and I can't stop myself from fantasizing about using it later. Maybe I can treat my weeks here as a vacation or something? Yeah, yeah, just like a spa getaway. It'll all be over before you know it, I promise myself, starting the shower and then spending a good five minutes trying to figure out how it works before I actually climb in.
Tilting my head back, I revel in the hot water, closing my eyes and letting the steam overwhelm me.
The sound of the bathroom door opening barely registers past the sound of the running water and the classical music I selected. But then the shouting and roughhousing starts, and my nostrils flare as a surge of anger overtakes me.
“Micah!” a voice shouts, and then there's laughter and scrambling. The shower stall next to mine opens, and I hear more fighting. “Screw you, you fucking prick!”
“No, screw you. I'm going to poison your coffee.”
“Hah. You would die without me, you codependent asshole.”
“Please. You're like a growth I can't seem to get rid of. A tumor, hitching a ride on my ass so you can spend your whole day kissing it.”
There's some more fighting, and I swear, it continues into the shower stall next to mine.
“Pervert. Trying to shower with your older brother.”
“Older by precisely eight minutes. Get out. I was in here first.”
Based on the sound of the voices, I can only figure the two arguing boys are the twins from yesterday. Great. My hands are all prune-y, but now I'm going to have to wait them out. Either that, or beat them out …
I turn the shower off and scramble for my towel.
“You're being rude to our shower guest,” one of the voices says, moving from the stall on my left over to the one on the right. “You okay in there, dude?”
Dude. Hilarious.
I ignore him, and slip into the changing room to put my uniform on, taking time to bind my breasts. It's a freaking process, and I'm already cursing in pain before it's over.
When I'm done, I grab my duffel, my shower caddy, and throw the door open.
The twins are there waiting for me, standing on either side, their elbows up on the doorjamb.
I'm officially blocked in.
I start to scramble back into the waiting room when one of them grabs my tie and jerks me out.
“Well, hello there,” they say in unison. The twin who's not holding my tie slams the dressing room door, and then the other one pushes me back into it. They both grab onto my arms from either side and lean in, blinking their big moss-green eyes at me. “Are you deaf?” they ask together.
“Or just plain rude?” the one on the right drawls, rolling his eyes.
“So rude,” the other agrees as I struggle against their grip. They're both strong as hell, and I'm totally overburdened with my bag and shower caddy. Damn it. I shouldn't have stolen so much fucking soap.
“Let me go,” I whisper, and they exchange a look that says they're not doing anything of the sort. I struggle more violently, and then they both just let go all of a sudden, sending me sprawling onto the ground. My bag goes flying and opens up, soaps and shampoos spilling all over the marble floor.
“Oh, what's this?” one of them asks, picking my bag up and starting to go through it. Shit. Shit, I have tampons in there, the tape to bind my breasts, and … “Oh!” The twin on the right exclaims, using a single finger to hold up the pink lacy panties with the white ruffles. “Someone has a girlfriend.”
“From where?” the other twin exclaims, using the back of my navy-colored academy jacket to haul me to my feet. He lets me stumble away and attempt—poorly—to snatch my underwear back from his brother. “Everly All-Girls Academy?” he asks, but my cheeks are flaming, and I'm not about to stand here and answer any questions.
“No, they're your mom's fucking panties,” I snap, slipping on some spilled shampoo and falling hard on my ass on the marble floor. “Now give them back.”
“Why should we?” the twins ask in unison, looking down at me with their stupid smiles, and their obnoxious red hair. It's lightly curled on the top, still wet from the shower. If they weren't being such jerks to me, I might fantasize about a twin sandwich … Eww. But no. Just no.
“Because I'm going to report you,” I say, standing up and trying to look dignified with shampoo all over my ass.
The twins—what were their names again? Micah and Tobias?—exchange another look, and then glance back at me.
“Are you reaaallly?” they drawl, and the one on the left grabs me by the shoulders while the one on the right shoves the panties down over my head, putting the crotch right in my freaking face.
“I don't think you'll report us,” Micah—or is it Tobias—says as I yank the underwear off my flaming red face, and then bend down to start shoving things back in my duffel.
“You wouldn't, not after stealing all that soap,” Tobias—or is it Micah—replies. They both watch me struggle to put my stuff back together, but a few of the shampoos and lotions came undone when the bag fell, and now it's all just a big sweet-smelling mess.
“Leave me alone,” I snarl, standing up with my bag in one hand and the caddy in the other. “My father's the headmaster. If I want you expelled, all I have to do is say so.”
“Expelled?” they ask in unison, turning to look at each other. And then they both laugh.
“Our father runs the largest real estate conglomerate in the worl
d,” Micah (or whoever) replies smoothly, reaching out to flick me in the nose with a long finger.
“Largest in the word,” Tobias repeats, putting out a foot, so that I trip on my way to the door, and the whole sequence starts all over again: soap goes flying, I struggle to pick it up, I end up with lilac-rosemary lotion all over my knees.
“No, you won't report us, will you, dickhead?” they repeat, and then they leave the bathroom together while I'm still stuck gathering my things. By the time I rise to my feet and go to leave the room, I find that it's locked.
Fantastic.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
“I still don't understand how you got yourself locked in the bathroom,” Dad says as we sit together in his new house and eat at the massive dining table. The headmaster's quarters here are so swank, so beyond any place we've ever lived. I've spent my whole life existing in crappy little apartments that were half the size of my current dorm room, with swimming pools that were always out of order, and neighbors who worked questionable jobs in the dead of night.
This is … like a freaking palace to me, this giant wood cabin like house with its soaring ceilings, person-sized fireplace, and chandeliers made of antlers. I mean, it's rustic as hell, and so totally not my style, but it's not like I can't appreciate it.
“I told you: some boys locked me in,” I grumble, but Dad sighs and puts his fork down, lifting his napkin from his lap and dabbing at his mouth.
“Charlotte,” he starts, but I interrupt him.
“Chuck. It's just Chuck while we're here, okay?”
He looks at me from disappointed blue eyes until I set my fork down, too.
“What?”
“I don't want you using the boys' bathroom. It's not appropriate.” Cue massive eyeroll from me as I lean back and cross my arms over my chest. First thing I did when I got here was go to the bathroom and remove the binding from my breasts. It hurts too much to wear it for even a second longer than I have class.
“Dad, I'm not walking all the way over here just to take a piss.”
“Language, Charlotte,” he says, not even remotely taking my request into account. “It's just not okay for you to be in there, especially not without the boys in your dorm getting some kind of say. They might not be comfortable with a girl in their bathroom, and frankly, honey, although I'd like to think the best of my students, it's not safe. What would happen if someone found out and you were cornered in that bathroom alone?”
My eyes narrow.
“You're so old-fashioned. Just like this dinosaur of an academy. Everyone here is weird and rude and so privileged, they've got silver spoons stuck up their asses. I hate it here.” I throw my napkin down on the table and stand up so quickly that my chair screeches across the shiny wood floors.
“You've hardly given it a chance, Charlotte,” Dad says, his voice firm but low in volume. I've spent years trying to get this man worked up into an angry frenzy, but to no avail. He never shows passion for anything, no matter how much I defy him or how irate I get in response to his never-ending well of calm. “It's been two days.”
“Yeah,” I snap, getting snarky. It's that California Valley Girl in me coming out in spades. “Two shitty, miserable days.” I put my hands flat on the table and lean down, staring at my father past the flickering of a candelabra. It sits so pretentiously in the middle of the table. Like, who eats by candlelight unless they're on a romantic dinner date or something? “Let me go back to California, Dad. I can stay with Aunt Elisa until Mom—”
“Charlotte.” That one word, as firm as an ax in my skull. The pain of a migraine takes over me, making me grit my teeth in anger.
“Why not? Elisa said I could stay on her couch until Mom was able to get a place. Monica even offered to let me move in with her. You wouldn't have to do anything, but get me a plane ticket.”
“We're not discussing this any further,” Dad says, putting his napkin on the table and standing up with much less screeching of his chair legs on the floor. He picks up his plate and glass, and gives me a look. “Finish your dinner, and I'll walk you back to the dorm.”
My eyes narrow to slits, and I feel anger burning like a white-hot star inside my chest.
“I don't need you to walk me back,” I snap snarkily, glaring at him in his perfectly pressed brown suit with the cream pinstripe. His old-fashioned outfit matches his slicked back 1920s hair, and the attitude he has to match. “I'm a boy now, remember? I can do anything.” Read: sarcasm.
I spin on my heel as he calls out to me, but I'm already racing toward the door. Flinging it open, I dart forward, only to slam into a broad body. Again.
“Whoa there,” a calm voice commands, and I look up to see that prince guy, Church Montague, standing there with a binder under one arm, his amber eyes taking me in with piqued interest.
My breasts aren't bound! I remember with a violent shock, shoving past him as hard as I can. He's tall as hell, and if the pain in my nose means anything at all, hard and muscular, too. But he's so surprised by me that he ends up stumbling, losing his binder over the edge of the railing as I clomp down the steps and take off along the curving path. There are little solar lights on either side, giving me plenty of illumination to see by.
I run right past the boys' dorm and keep going, enjoying the freedom I feel as I cut across the campus and into a copse of woods, coming out the other side to find the half-constructed girls' dorm.
My feet come to a shuffling stop, and I bend over, putting my hands on my knees and struggling to catch my breath. I only left California a few weeks ago, and already, I feel like I'm out of shape. I need to find some outlet for my emotions, but I can't exactly go surfing here.
All around, there are patches of snow here and there, and the air is frigid and ice-cold. Still, I'm not quite ready to go back to my room, and I most definitely am not going back to Dad's place. Instead, I straighten out the front of my jacket and move toward the front door. It's locked, of course, but the windows on the bottom level are boarded up, and one's already come loose.
I lift it up and peer inside, expecting a construction zone, some abandoned paint cans, piles of lumber, and so on. Instead, I find a surreal scene, like a moment trapped in time. There are couches covered in plastic, coffee tables stacked with dusty books, and paintings on the wall that are just as nice as the ones hanging in the boys' dorm.
“What the hell?” I whisper, and then my curiosity gets the better of me, and I end up climbing in to get a look around. The board slams shut behind me when I let go of it, and the sound makes me jump. Shaking off the feeling, I head deeper into the building, surprised to see that the floors look fairly new, and there's not much left that actually needs to be done in here. “Why is this place not being used?”
My voice echoes around the room, emphasizing the strange lack of humanity in a place that should be buzzing with students. Making my way from the living room to the staircase, I see that it spirals up to what looks like a fully finished second story. My hand reaches for the banister when I see a flash of movement from up above.
My heart jumps into my throat, and I feel a surge of panic, my dad's worries overwhelming me. What if a bunch of guys are hanging out in here? What if they find me? I hate living in a shitty misogynistic world where girls can't walk alone, but … it's kind of a reality, isn't it? I shouldn't have to try to avoid being raped—guys shouldn't rape.
But there's the world we should live in, the world we wish we lived in, and then there's the nightmare of reality.
I turn and race for the boarded window, shoving the wood out of the way and climbing out.
My breath huffs out in foggy clouds as I take off for the boys' dorm.
I don't stop running until I get to my room.
Every day at Adamson All-Boys Academy is a slog for me. The other students have quickly learned that I'm not interested in making friends, so they've decided to just ignore me. I sit in the corner in every class and half pay attention, wishing for warm weather and beac
hes and sunshine, missing Cody and Monica like crazy.
I've been texting them constantly, updating them on every boring fact of my miserable days, but they hardly respond. The most I get is an I'm sorry, babe from Monica or miss ya, when u movin' back? from Cody. I'm starting to feel abandoned here, especially after seeing all the gorgeous beach photos they've been posting on Instagram and Snapchat.
“Are you even going to say sorry for knocking my binder into the pond?” Church asks when I come out of math class and find him standing against the bank of lockers on the opposite side of the hall. He's looking at me like he wants to punch me. “That was a week ago. I've been waiting to see if you'd say anything, anything at all.”
I squeeze my books against my chest and give him a defiant stare.
“It was an accident,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. Do I sound like a girl? I wonder as Church studies me with his gorgeous amber eyes. His hair is a similar color, you might call it honey, and he has a face that looks like it spends most of its time smiling. The frown he's wearing seems … disconnected, but somehow more real.
“That binder had almost a thousand student surveys in it that I'd painstakingly passed out and collected. Now they're all wet, and I can't read a damn thing. You just did undid months of summer work.”
“Maybe you should've done the survey online,” I grind out, struggling to stay standing there with his eyes on me like that. I feel uncomfortable beneath that calculating gaze, like he might look a bit closer at any moment and see right through me. “Like any normal person born outside the stone age might.'
“Seriously?” Church asks, taking another step closer and slamming his palm into the wall beside my head. He looks like he's about ten seconds away from kicking my ass. “The whole project was based on whether students might vote differently given the option of a paper ballot or an online one. And now half that research is gone.”
“Yeah, well, sorry. What do you want me to do about it?” I realize that I'm kind of being an asshole. No, no, I'm definitely being an asshole. But I'm just … nervous as hell. I want to run. Church is standing too close, and he smells like cedar and lotus, maybe a bit of amber and basil in there. Definitely some expensive cologne. Holy crap, he smells good.
The Secret Girl Page 2