by Laura Lee
If I’m being honest with myself, I’m actually excited about getting to wear the stuff in my closet, but this—a faded tank and cut-offs—is the real me. I want to make sure that my first impression on these people is as authentic as it gets. I recognize Charles Callahan from our one brief encounter as soon as I walk into the room.
He eyes me with distaste. “Jasmine, did Ms. Williams not show you where your new wardrobe is located?”
I take a seat at the far end of the fancy table. “Oh, she did, but I didn’t feel like changing.”
The woman sitting next to my father flashes a fake smile. Based on her major Stepford vibes, I’m guessing she’s the wife. “I’m Madeline, dear. Welcome to the family.”
“Uh... thanks.” I nod to the basket of rolls sitting in front of her. “Pass the bread, will ya?”
My wicked stepsister snickers. “You might want to think about skipping the carbs. We wouldn’t want any rumors floating around school that you’re pregnant with some gangbanger’s kid, now would we?”
Madeline chuckles. “Oh, Peyton, stop joking around, dear. Jasmine might think you’re seriously trying to hurt her feelings.”
Peyton presses her flattened palm over her heart. “I would never do such a thing, Mother.”
Yeah, right.
Peyton gives me a look that clearly says she is trying to hurt my feelings. Too bad for her, I’m not taking the bait. I jump out of the chair and grab a roll before sitting back down.
Chewing through a big bite, I say, “It’s all good. If some vapid bitch wants to start a rumor about me, let her. I don’t give a fuck what other people say.”
I give Peyton a look that says she’s the vapid bitch I’m referring to.
My stepmother gasps while my father says, “Cursing will not be tolerated in my home, Jasmine. I realize your upbringing has been subpar at best, but I will not allow any daughter of mine to sound so uneducated. It’s unbecoming for a young lady to speak such filthy words.”
I snort indelicately, earning a horrified look from his wife. “First of all, I prefer Jazz, not Jasmine. Secondly, my upbringing was just fine. You do realize this isn’t the 1950s, right? Women swear all the time. I’ve even read a study recently that said people who curse often are typically smarter than those who don’t.”
His lips tighten as he waves a hand dismissively. “Regardless of what some study says, you are Jasmine Callahan now. There are certain expectations that come with our family name. Behaving like a well-educated and proper lady is one of them.”
“Well, it’s a good thing my last name is Rivera then, isn’t it?”
Sperm Donor gives me a smarmy smile. “Not for long. I’ve expedited the name change process. The judge should sign off on it by the end of the week.”
My jaw drops. “Excuse me? You can’t just change my name.”
His bushy eyebrows rise. “But I can, and I will. Until you’re a legal adult, the law says otherwise. Take it as the gift that it is, Jasmine. Being a Callahan will afford you certain privileges.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I never asked to be a Callahan and I don’t need any privileges that come with it.”
He narrows his icy blue eyes. “Stop being such a foolish little girl. You’ll learn to appreciate it soon enough. Once you and your sister get to school, you’ll need our family name behind you.”
Peyton sneers. “Daddy is right, Jasmine. You’d be eaten alive at Windsor if you showed up as... yourself.”
I give her a look that says, I can handle myself, remember?
I sigh. “What’s the deal with this Windsor place? Based on the uniforms hanging in my closet, I’m guessing it’s some kind of private school for rich assholes. Am I close?”
My stepmother places her hand over Sperm Donor’s forearm when his face reddens. “Jasmine, dear, Windsor is an elite prep school. Anyone who graduates from there is practically a shoo-in for the Ivy Leagues.”
I consider that for a moment. I’ve always dreamed of going to UCLA but never thought it’d be possible, despite the fact that I’ve maintained a 4.0 GPA. I could only imagine how many doors would open for my sister and me if I had a degree under my belt from such a reputable university. It’s not an Ivy, but it definitely carries prestige. The last time I checked, their admissions rate was less than fifteen percent.
“Where is it?” These two seem like the type to ship their kids off to boarding school and the one thing I won’t do is leave L.A. I need to keep an eye on Belle.
She takes a sip of wine. “We’re quite fortunate that it’s local—only about ten miles from here. You’ll love it there—it’s a beautiful facility. Only students from the upper echelon of society are admitted. It’s an honor to be accepted. You’re really fortunate things happened when they did—they never accept students after the first trimester begins, no matter how generous a donation may be. Your father had to pull some strings to get you enrolled so last minute.”
I stiffen. “I’m fortunate things happened when they did?” I couldn’t care less that I’m shouting right now. “What things are you referring to exactly? My mother’s death?”
“Well... yes,” she sputters.
Is this bitch serious right now? I’d give anything to be sitting on the couch with Belle and my mom, eating a bowl of Ramen for dinner instead of being at this monstrous table with a gourmet meal.
I fly out of my seat so fast, it topples over. “Fuck. You.”
Peyton and her mother gasp as Charles shoots out of his chair and yells, “Jasmine! Apologize to your mother this instant!”
I point to the uptight blonde before me. “She is not my mother.” I move over to the younger version of her. “And she is not my sister.” I nod to him. “As for you... we may share DNA, but I don’t need a daddy either—I’ve gone my entire life without one and I’ve been just fine. And how many times do I have to fucking tell you people, call me Jazz!”
His face is so red, it’s turning purple. “Go to your room right now, you disrespectful little shit!”
So much for the no cursing rule. Maybe that only applies to people without dicks.
I scoff. “Gladly.”
I’m angry with myself for losing control, but I saw red when Madeline talked about how convenient my mother’s death was. I know I’ll need to suck it up for Belle’s sake and be on my best behavior but I need some time to cool down first. The last thing I see before stomping up the stairs is Peyton’s smug smile, telling me she’s enjoying every minute of my misery. I’m definitely going to have to watch out for that one.
CHAPTER TWO
JAZZ
The next morning is filled with one primping session after another. It seems Madeline Callahan has made it her personal mission to make me look like a proper young lady. The house manager woke me up at the crack of dawn, commanded me to shower, then led me down to the salon where my new stepmother and a team of stylists were waiting to pounce. Yes, there’s an actual salon in this house, complete with adjustable height chairs, washbowls, nail stations, the works.
Madeline says the salon is an “absolute necessity” because a lady must never go out in public without looking her best. I swear the woman thinks we’re Kardashians or something. Shit, I wouldn’t be surprised if she knew them considering they live around here somewhere. I indulged her this time because I’m trying to be flexible for Belle’s sake, but the bitch is crazy if she thinks I’m going to get up early every day to have my hair and makeup professionally done.
First of all, I have no desire to stick out and that’d be rather difficult if I looked as if I just stepped off a catwalk. Secondly, restful sleep is a rarity for me these days. I need every spare moment I can get if I actually manage to shut my brain down long enough to doze off.
My hair is now fully brunette—not a trace of purple, which Madeline says is against Windsor’s dress code—and perfectly blown out. My skin has been waxed, exfoliated, and moisturized to the extreme, and the nails on my hands and feet are painted a glo
ssy pale pink. Madeline practically had an aneurysm when I asked the tech if she had any black polish. Apparently, a proper lady only wears shades of nude unless there’s a special occasion. Then, and only then, are reds acceptable. Under no circumstances, am I permitted to wear anything else because it would make me look cheap.
Cue the eye roll.
I already miss my mom with a gut-wrenching intensity, but this superficial bullshit amplifies it. Mahalia Rivera was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known and she rarely wore makeup. Our Filipino heritage gave her skin a year-round bronzed look with eyes and hair the color of dark chocolate. She was incredibly fit from being on her feet all day working various jobs, and her smile could light up a room.
Her physical beauty wasn’t where it stopped though. My mom had the biggest heart, always helping others no matter how busy or exhausted she was. She worked hard, sometimes three jobs at a time, but not once had she complained. My sister and I never doubted her love for us; it radiated from her. She proved it, day in and day out, with her actions. If more people were like her, this world would have a lot fewer problems.
I rub the aching spot on my chest. I’ve read that emotional pain from losing someone important to you is so paramount it can manifest into physical pain. I never quite understood how that was possible, but I definitely get it now. Ever since my mom died, the sharp pains in my chest and the pit in my stomach have been constant reminders she’s no longer here. Sometimes it feels like my heart is literally splitting in two.
I take a deep breath before stepping out the back doors for inspection. Charles, Madeline, and Peyton are all sitting at a large table on the patio eating brunch. I guess they weren’t worried about starting without me.
Madeline gasps. “Oh, honey, you look beautiful! Doesn’t she look stunning, darling?”
Sperm Donor looks me over with careful scrutiny. “Yes, this will be... acceptable. For now.”
What the hell? I just had to deal with people fussing all over me for six hours to bring me up to his standards. “What’s the matter? I’m not blonde enough for you?”
All three members of my newfound family look Scandinavian, with pale hair and blue eyes. Even though Peyton is technically his stepdaughter, she looks more like Charles’ birth child than I ever will.
His jaw tics. “Are you accusing me of something, Jasmine?”
I lift a shoulder in response.
A smarmy smile stretches across his face. “My first wife—God rest her soul—was Venezuelan and my second wife is African American.”
Jesus, how many times has this guy been married?
“And?”
He dabs at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Not to mention the fact that your mother was Asian American. I certainly hope you’re not implying I would have an issue with people of color because I think my history with women would contradict that statement. It’s not a matter of race; it’s about class. You may be wearing designer clothing and appear more refined on the surface, but you wear your lack of decorum like a badge of honor.
“I realize you grew up in a different socioeconomic environment so I’ll give you some leeway, but you will learn how to carry yourself properly. If you can’t figure out how to do that on your own, I’ll have to sign you up for etiquette classes.”
Peyton smirks. I scratch the bridge of my nose with my middle finger in response.
Charles narrows his eyes. “That only reinforces my statement.”
I nod. “Got it. So, you’re not a racist but you are a classist.”
God, what is it about this man that compels me to run my mouth?
His face gets that purplish tint to it that I’m becoming awfully familiar with. “Classes begin tomorrow. I suggest you take the rest of the day to familiarize yourself with the Windsor Academy handbook. Their expectations of the student body are clearly laid out and will be adhered to.”
I pop an eyebrow. “Or else?”
Madeline places her hand on his forearm, in attempt to diffuse the situation. “Dear, I’ll have one of the maids bring some snacks to your bedroom. You just let them know if you need anything else.”
I give a flippant wave as I step back inside. It’s probably for the best so I don’t say anything else that pisses him off. My self-control is obviously lacking where Charles Callahan is concerned. I have no desire to be around a man who can dismiss me so easily anyway.
I’LL ADMIT, WINDSOR Academy’s campus is impressive. I can’t believe this place is right outside of L.A. It seems like a completely different world. As the town car pulls through the wrought-iron gates—of course Charles Callahan couldn’t be bothered to drive me here—I’m dumbstruck by the beauty of it. There are three red brick buildings, with two stories each, lined up in a semi-circle. Smaller buildings are scattered throughout, all with a similar architecture. The grounds are meticulously landscaped and surrounded by thick woods comprised of mature evergreens.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my plaid skirt, reminding myself that I have no reason to be nervous. As the car comes to a halt, I see Peyton and two other girls standing next to a red sports car. The student parking lot is freshly paved and filled with ridiculously flashy vehicles just like it.
By the way the two girls are fawning over Peyton with plastic smiles, I’m guessing this is her mean girl brigade. Unlike me, Peyton has her license, so she drove herself to school. I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I step out of the car.
The stunning copper-haired girl to Peyton’s left eyes me curiously. “Who’s that?”
“Nobody,” Peyton sneers. “Literally nobody. Forget you ever saw her.”
All three girls giggle as I meet my driver, Frank, at the rear of the town car. I still can’t get over the fact that I have my own personal driver.
He pulls my new designer leather backpack out of the trunk. “I’ll escort you to the administration’s office, Miss Callahan.”
“Frank, really, I can handle it. Just point me in the right direction and I’m good.”
He eyes me skeptically. “Are you sure? Mr. Callahan would not be pleased if you got lost and were late.”
I wink. “I can handle it.”
Frank smiles sheepishly and looks back at Peyton. “I don’t know. If Miss Devereaux—”
“Miss Devereaux is too busy with her adoring fans to notice. Really, Frank. I’m good.”
He hands my bag over. “Very well. Good luck, Miss Callahan.”
“Jazz,” I correct.
He gives me a soft smile and points to the building in front of us. “Good luck, Jazz. The administration office is in Lincoln Hall, the center building. The office will be immediately to your right and they’re expecting you. I’ll be here to pick you up after school.”
“Thanks. I have a feeling I’m going to need it. Have a nice drive back.”
He nods. “Thank you, miss.”
As I walk across the parking lot, I can feel people staring. I make a conscious effort to hold my head high, reminding myself that I give zero fucks what these spoiled brats think of me.
I finally make it through the crowd of students and breathe a sigh of relief as I ascend the steps into Lincoln Hall. That is until I see three sets of eyes, standing off to the side, tracking my every move.
Damn.
I normally wouldn’t look twice at a preppy douchebag, but these three wear their school uniforms well. I stumble when I lock gazes with the boy in the middle. Scratch that. There’s nothing boyish about any of these guys. All three of them are tall, broad, and muscular. Jesus, what are their parents feeding them? Middle guy’s icy stare causes all sorts of crazy, dirty images to run through my mind, forcing shivers down my spine.
Whoa.
I know it’s cliché, but I’ve always had a weakness for bad boys and these guys are the epitome of one. Stupid teenage hormones.
I shake it off and make my way into the building which is an odd experience in itself. Even my elementary school had metal detectors and bag check stations before e
ntering. I guess they don’t think rich kids have a propensity for going postal. My eyes widen as I get my first glimpse of my new stomping grounds. Cherry wood paneling lines the walls with polished white marble flooring. There’s no tiny metal graffiti-adorned lockers for these kids either; instead, they have full-sized wooden ones that are only a shade darker than the paneling. The whole place screams money. I swear it even smells like money.
My fellow students are openly gawking, looking at me like I’m some sort of freak show. Geez, the social hierarchy in this place is painfully obvious, as if we’re living smack dab in the middle of a teen movie. I shove that thought aside as I spot a sign indicating the office is just off to the right like Frank said. As I step over the threshold, I’m surprised at how opulent it is, although I suppose I shouldn’t be considering it matches the rest of the place. There are several sturdy cherry wood desks in the middle of the room, each complete with state of the art computers and tiny decorative stain-glassed lamps. There’s a single door on the right wall with a brass nameplate indicating it belongs to the headmaster.
A frail woman wearing a black pantsuit barely takes her eyes away from her computer long enough to acknowledge me. “May I help you?”
“Hi... um... I’m new. I was told to come here first.”
The woman raises her delicate silver eyebrow. “Name?”
“Jazz Rivera.” I fidget as her fingers fly along the keyboard. “You might have me listed under Jasmine.”
“I don’t have a Jazz or Jasmine Rivera.” She shakes her head. “I do, however, have a Jasmine Callahan who’s scheduled to arrive today.”
I bite my tongue, reminding myself that it’s not her fault my sperm donor is an asshole. “Yeah, that’s me. Although, my last name is legally Rivera.” For a few more days anyway. “Could you please fix that?”