St Mary's Academy Series Box Set 1

by Seven Steps

  Ms. Mitchell and I were in a very exclusive book club together. So exclusive, in fact, that there were only two of us. Twice a month, we decided upon and read a teen-appropriate romance novel, then two weeks later, we’d meet up during her lunch break and my study period to discuss it, carefully picking apart each simile and metaphor. Every line of prose and allusions to theme. Every bit of dialogue that made us laugh or cry. There were bookworms, and then there was Ms. Mitchell and I. We didn’t read books. We devoured them, brought them back up, and digested them again. We were like cows. Really cool, totally not fat, book cows.

  Ms. Mitchell pointed to the back of the room.

  “Yes, Cole.”

  “Will this project hold the same weight as our midterm?”

  My back teeth clenched. Just the sound of Cole’s voice made me curl my hands into fists.

  Cole Winsted was one third of the Winsted triplets. Jake was obviously the hot triplet, Regina was the crazy one, and Cole was the smart one. I had the second highest grades in the school because Cole had the highest, and it rubbed me like a cheese grater. It wasn’t his intelligence that bothered me. It was the fact that he was a jerk about it. He threw out facts and figures like the popular kids threw around their parents’ annual income. His favorite pastime, aside from football and student council, was to throw it in my face that my GPA was one tenth of a point lower than his. Mine was 3.8. His was 3.9. One lousy tenth of a point. But to hear Cole tell it, I was half way to remedial classes.

  Like I said. Grade A jerk.

  “It will hold equal weight as your mid-term. Meaning, if you do not pass this project, then you will not pass this class.”

  Cole squinted in confusion.

  “What does that mean? Not pass a class? I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Is that an actual thing?”

  A few kids giggled, mostly Cole’s football teammates.

  Ms. Mitchell didn’t roll her eyes, but I could see that she wanted to.

  “Yes, Cole, we know that you are the king of class passing. But that’s a solo activity. Let’s see how well you do with a partner.” More giggles and catcalls erupted, and Ms. Mitchell’s cheeks turned a deep shade of pink. Mine did too and I shifted in my seat.

  She pressed on, despite the double entendre that now hung in the air like a humorously-shaped cloud.

  “This project will hinge on two people working together. Meaning that both partners must contribute equally. If both partners do not participate in the dramatic reading, you will fail the project. So, no doing all the work and putting two names on it, Mr. Winsted.”

  Cole smiled innocently, his pearly white teeth gleaming.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Ms. Mitchell. My moral compass would never allow me to commit such an unspeakable act.”

  I snorted and Cole glared at me. I’d been in this school for three years and somehow, Cole and I were always rivals at something academic. If I scored the highest math grade in the class, he would say it was a fluke. If he scored the highest grade in chemistry, I would announce that he paid off the teacher. And so, back and forth we went, every year, every class, every day. It was a super annoying part of school life that I’d learned to live with.

  Ms. Mitchell gave Cole a half smile and turned back to the class as the school bell rang overhead.

  “Start thinking about the book you’d like to work on and the dramatic piece you’d like to do!” she called as everyone rose to leave.

  I slung my book bag over my shoulder, rushing out to discuss this new and potentially life-changing event with my two best and only friends, Ariel Swimworthy and Jasmine Patel, when I crashed in to a wall.

  A human wall.

  I looked up, right into a set of eyes so blue that they’d put the clearest sky to shame.

  Jake’s eyes.

  “I, uh, I…” My brain turned to mush. I couldn’t think. His eyes were so beautiful. So perfect. I saw my future in those eyes.

  “My bad,” he said, giving me a half smile.

  Lungs tight, I froze in place while Jake gave me a quick once over. Then, without another word, he moved on.

  Jake Winsted looked at me. After two years and two months, he finally looked at me.

  I could scream. That was, if my lungs didn’t feel like they were in a vise. My feet rooted me to the floor, long after the class cleared. My heart raced.

  Jake Winsted looked at me.

  My mouth broke into a smile, happiness infusing every pore. After being in the shadows so long, having his eyes on me felt glorious. They were so blue. So beautiful. So perfect.

  He was perfect.

  “Is everything all right?” Ms. Mitchell asked from behind her desk.

  “Yes.” The word left my mouth in one long breath.

  “Are you sure? You’ve been standing there for a while. You look kind of … pale.”

  “I’m fine.” I was more than fine. I was euphoric.

  She paused, and I finally turned to look at her. Her red glasses were perched on the tip of her nose. Her brows were furrowed in concern.

  “Okay,” she said, her word sounding unsure. “So, I found a new book for our next book club meeting.”

  She reached in to her desk and pulled out a paperback. I was immediately drawn to the pastels and big, white, jagged letters on the cover. I read the title out loud.

  “My Favorite Forever by Tabitha Browning.”

  I pulled my slipping bookbag strap higher on my shoulder.

  There were three things one had to do when introduced to a new paperback book.

  First, you had to touch the cover and notice if the print was raised or not. This part was very important, since raised text always meant better books. This book’s text was raised, and my heart flipped in excitement.

  Second, you had to sniff the pages. I raised it to my nose and took a deep whiff. It smelled like paper, ink and awaiting adventures. A beautiful, new smell. Not like the books in the library that smelled like fingerprints and mold.

  Third, and this was the most important step, you had to hear the spine crack. I opened the book and the spine cracked hard, like there were actual bones in it. I smiled. Every book cracked a little differently. I liked to think of the cracking as the first word in the story.

  I sighed. Today was turning out to be amazing. I really should have washed my hair.

  “It looks fantastic,” I said, turning it over and reading the back.

  She grinned. “I know, right? I love Tabitha Browning.”

  I’d never heard of her, but I took Ms. Mitchell’s word for it. She had excellent taste in books.

  “Same time in two weeks?” she asked.

  I nodded, my eyes still skimming over the words. “Yeah. Same time.”

  Not only had Jake looked at me, but I had a fresh book in my hands, ready for me to devour. This was the best day ever.

  I thanked Ms. Mitchell and flew from the room, ready to take on the world. That was, until I passed under the class doorway.

  “So, Bella French.”

  Cole stood outside of the door, leaning carelessly against the painted yellow wall. If Jake was an angel, Cole was, well, the other thing. Dark hair. Olive skin. They did share the same athletic build and blue eyes, but while Jake’s wardrobe was straight off the runways of Paris, Cole’s style was simple. Dark jeans, dark shirts, hoodies. Today, he wore glasses without lenses just so he could look smarter than the genius he already was.

  “Not now, Cole,” I replied, anxious to share the news with the two people that I knew would care to know.

  “Just wanted to let you know that if you need anyone to proofread your project, I am open to tutoring.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I can proofread my own project, thank you very much.”

  “Are you sure? Because, based on your 3.8 GPA, I would imagine that you would need a little help.”

  A growl escaped my throat. How could one person be so infuriating?

  He ignored my anger and smiled wider.


  “From you? The guy who is three A’s behind me in English? No. I don’t think so.”

  His smile dropped into a frown and my mood lightened.

  “Everyone knows that you’re Ms. Mitchell’s favorite student. That’s why you score so high in her class.”

  “I score high because my work is superior to everyone else’s, including yours. Maybe you should be the one asking me to tutor you. The answer is no, by the way. A big, fat no.”

  “I would never ask you to tutor me.”

  “And I would never agree. Now that we have that settled, I have to be on my way.”

  “Still chasing Narcissus?" His eyes held mine, darkness infusing his gaze. The same darkness that always appeared when he spoke about his brother.

  I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest. I didn’t need to explain myself to anyone. Least of all, Cole.

  He mimicked my stance and continued.

  "If you catch him, be sure to keep him out of the bathroom. You know, in case he falls in love with his reflection in the toilet.”

  I gasped. “That’s a sucky thing to say about your brother.”

  He shrugged. “That doesn’t make it any less true.”

  “Jealous, much?”

  “Of Jake? You wish.”

  I didn’t bother hiding my knowing smile.

  “You are, aren’t you? You’re jealous that he’s popular and the girls like him, and here you are, all alone in a hallway, your sole joy in life teasing invisible girls like me. It’s pathetic, actually.”

  He bit the left side of his bottom lip, his cheeks reddening.

  I gushed with pleasure as he squirmed at my words. “Did I hit a nerve, Cole?”

  “You’re naïve.”

  “And you are turning green with envy.”

  “Whatever.”

  He glared at me, pushed off the wall and stormed away.

  I smiled wickedly. Score one for me.

  Cole was pretentious and a jerk. He deserved a reality check. I was more than happy to give him one.

  Satisfied with my win and Jake’s newfound, though brief, attention, I practically skipped to fifth period lunch.

  2

  Jasmine and Ariel are invisible too, though for very different reasons.

  Jasmine is the only Indian girl in our mostly white, super exclusive, super rich school. Anyone who says racism is dead is lying. Her father owns a pharmaceutical company based in New York. She has amazing grades and is on student council. Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, some jerky kids still assume that she doesn’t speak English. I want to kick those kids in their stupid faces.

  Ariel’s father holds the leases to at least a hundred buildings in Manhattan—including the lease to our school—and she still can’t get a seat at the popular table. Or won’t. I’ve always had a gut feeling that she isn’t popular because she doesn’t want to be, though I have no idea why she wouldn’t. She’s perfect for it, with her shiny red hair that hangs down by her butt and her big green eyes that always remind me of clear Caribbean oceans.

  My two besties were less than thrilled about my Jake story, which was both disappointing and super irritating.

  “So, he just looked at you?” Ariel asked. She loosely gripped her cheese sandwich, giving the thin yellow slices enough room to slip from the wheat bun.

  “Right at me,” I replied.

  The lunch room was wall-to-wall with loud, spoiled teenagers, each sitting at clean, long, white tables. It was actually kind of beautiful with its glass and stone walls, famous food-related paintings, and slightly dimmed lighting. The only bad part about it was the hideous black and green checkerboard floor tiles. The green wasn’t a pretty forest green or an interesting emerald green, either. It was gross green. Like some kid had just puked up split pea soup all over it. And the black was ... well ... it was just plain depressing. Whoever the interior designer was really dropped the ball on the floor color scheme.

  “Did he say anything?” Jasmine asked. Her cheese sandwich didn’t have mayo, mustard or anything else on it. It was just cheese and bread. Seriously, I don’t know how she does it. Cheese sandwiches are gross, but dry cheese sandwiches are even worse.

  “He said, ‘my bad’. Then he kind of, just, looked at me.”

  “Like, he checked you out?” Ariel asked.

  "I think so."

  Jasmine’s face tightened in disapproval as she eyed my t-shirt and greasy hair.

  “In that outfit?”

  I nodded, and shoved a green salad leaf in to my mouth. A small piece of it dropped on to the table. I’m not the most graceful of eaters. My table manners lay somewhere between toddler and trained monkey.

  “I know. I look homeless,” I said, cringing at the thought of my hole-filled sweat pants, “but next time, I’ll be ready.”

  “Do you think there will be a next time?” Jasmine asks.

  “Well, my argument with Cole gave me an idea. I am going to ask Jake if he needs an English tutor.”

  The two girls let out a collective gasp, drawing the stares of a few classmates who sat close by, including the annoyed gaze of the mayor’s niece.

  “You’re serious?” Ariel asked.

  I nodded, and took another stab at my salad.

  “Super serious. It’s time that I stopped being invisible and actually did something for once.”

  “Maybe you can start by doing your hair,” Jasmine said.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “And wearing non-Goodwill clothes?” Ariel added.

  These girls were out of their minds if they thought I would give up my thrifting ways. It was cheap and good for the environment. Two things that were very important to me.

  “Maybe.” Or maybe not.

  “We should go shopping,” Ariel said. “Nothing says ‘look at me’ like new clothes.”

  I frowned. Jasmine and Ariel were super rich, but I wasn’t. My grandparents paid for me to come here. St. Mary’s Academy was their alma mater and they wanted it to be mine, too. How they went from wealthier than God to running a horse farm in North Carolina, I had no idea. I made a mental note to ask one day.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, my smile dropping.

  One of the reasons that I shopped at Goodwill was because Daddy didn’t have a ton of money. Unlike Ariel, Jasmine’s parents, and everyone else at this school, Daddy was middle class. He worked at a body shop in Brooklyn. We weren’t rich, or even super comfortable. We were making ends meet, with a little left over for ice cream and cookies once in a while. It sucked when Ariel and Jasmine wanted to do stuff that I couldn’t afford but mostly, we just hung out at one of our houses and watched movies or listened to music.

  “It will be my treat,” Jasmine said. “We’ll go today after school.”

  “Can’t,” Ariel said. “Swim practice.”

  “And I have to study for my French test next week,” I added.

  Jasmine looked heartbroken. She loved to spend her father’s money on shopping sprees for others. She was the most generous person that I knew.

  “Well, at least promise me that you won’t wear anything with holes in it,” she said.

  I pretended to examine a piece of lettuce.

  “What if they are ripped on purpose?”

  “No holes. Try to look sophisticated. Maybe jeans and a tight t-shirt. And not one of your weird movie quote t-shirts. A girly one with sparkles. Or, if you’re feeling daring, maybe a dress. Or,” she gasped dramatically, "dare I say it? Heels!"

  I laughed out loud, drawing another irritated gaze from the mayor’s niece. I could deal with no holes, but not wearing my movie quote t-shirts was crossing the line. I had everything from, 'Say hello to my little friend’ to ‘Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore’ to my favorite, ‘Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’ What could I say? I was a movie buff. And I won’t even get started on my music lyric t-shirts. There were at least twenty of those, most of them handmade by y
ours truly.

  Still, I decided to humor Jasmine because she was one third of our best friend trio.

  “I will try my best.”

  Her eyes narrowed, the way my mother’s used to when she knew I was lying. Out of the three of us, Jasmine was closest to the den mother, giving us good advice, checking our clothes for stains and holes, and cheering us when we were down. I was grateful for the mothering, though I didn’t tell her that. If I did, she’d become impossible.

  “Hm … I think I should pay you a visit tomorrow morning before school. Just to make sure that you don’t wear that King Kong shirt that I hate.”

  I shrugged innocently and took another bite of my salad. So what if it was a boy t-shirt? King Kong was the best out of all the monsters. Better than Godzilla or any other lizard out there. But Jasmine didn’t care about stuff like that. She was more interested in getting me to wear my hair straightened or making me wear makeup—or worse, the color pink. I loathed the color pink. My official stance was that the color pink set the women’s movement back hundreds of years. Hundreds!

  “Ladies.” Kenny Jennings slid in to the seat next to me. He was a skinny kid with floppy hair who always wore cargo pants and was never without his bookbag. His bony, disobedient limbs were constantly in motion, shaking, bouncing and twisting when they should have been still. For some reason, he smelled like tacos, even though the lunch ladies weren’t serving tacos today.

  “Looking for a little fun?” he asked.

  We collectively rolled our eyes.

  “Take your bag of loser, and scat,” I said.

  He held up his hands in defense.

  “Suit yourselves. No need to get testy.”

  He swore at us under his breath before moving on to the next table to sell his backpack wares. I was glad he was gone. Kenny made my skin crawl.

  It was a well-known fact that Kenny dealt drugs in the school. Nothing hard. Mostly weed. And being the son of a senator, any complaints about him were officially wiped off his record. Eventually, everyone stopped complaining all together. Now, he was a staple of St. Mary’s Academy. The boy that kids called on Friday nights if they wanted to get high. Most kids didn’t buy anything from Kenny and the ones that did were too rich to get in trouble for it.