I wonder if that’s the case for Whit as well. Does he just get whatever he wants, thanks to his last name? Or is he actually smart? Does he do well in school? Or does he act like an asshole and put in zero effort? He doesn’t have to abide by the school’s strict rules, not like the rest of us.
The bell rings and I hurriedly gather my things, sling my backpack over my shoulder and exit the room without a backward glance. I have my schedule clutched in my hand and I scan it, noting I have math next.
My least favorite subject.
The wide hall is flooded with students, all of us making our way to our classrooms, everyone looking the same in their uniforms. I went to a private school in Manhattan, though we didn’t have to wear uniforms. I’m unused to the itchy wool skirt, the stifling button-up shirt. And the jacket?
I hate it. I’m actually sweating right now.
My gaze drops to the other girls’ skirts as I walk past them. Some of them are extra short, and I assume they’re rolling them at the waist. I can’t help but notice they all have beautiful hair. Vivid color on their mouths, dramatic makeup on their eyes. Brightly painted nails. A way of standing out from the crowd.
My long brown hair is pulled back into a simple ponytail. No paint on my nails or my face. A little bit of mascara on my lashes is the only effort I put into my look this morning, and I feel downright plain compared to these girls.
Maybe that’s a good thing. I don’t want to stand out. I don’t want anyone to notice me. If I’d known Whit was in attendance, I would’ve never wanted to come here. For all my internet sleuthing regarding the Lancasters, that I never figured out he was still enrolled at Lancaster Prep is a rookie mistake. I should’ve known better.
I should’ve known period.
While the internet was full of talk about my mother’s affair with Augustus, and there are plenty of books and numerous online articles about previous Lancaster generations, there’s not a ton of information about the current generation. Maybe it’s out of respect for their privacy, because of their age. And Whit doesn’t put himself out there. He has a cousin—Brooks Lancaster—who’s an influencer on Instagram. He has his own YouTube channel and is huge on TikTok. He’s the one with all the fame.
Maybe Whit prefers staying out of the limelight.
I enter my math class and settle at the back of the classroom, deciding that will be my seat of choice for the rest of the day. I don’t know why I sat in the front in English. Out of defiance? Figueroa frustrated me. Considering we’re seniors in an honors English class, Romeo and Juliet is a trite reading assignment.
But I’m not going to complain. I’m actually grateful, considering I’ve already read the book. At least I don’t have to catch up on anything.
An older woman enters the classroom and she shuts the door with a loud boom, turning the lock. She makes her way to the front with brisk efficiency, turning to face us with a brittle smile.
“Welcome to Math III. If you don’t know who I am, my name is Miss Falk. As in, don’t Falk with me.” She smiles.
No one laughs. Guess they’re taking her words to heart.
Passing out a syllabus, she talks about what she expects from us. She doles out our textbooks and a single sheet of homework, claiming she wants to assess our abilities, and I glance it over, frowning at the questions.
“Is there a problem?” Miss Falk asks, pausing right next to my desk.
I glance up to find her contemplating me, curiosity in her gaze. “No ma’am.” I shake my head.
“Good. Welcome to Lancaster, Miss Savage.”
She moves on.
A few people turn in their seats to openly study me and I smile wanly at them before ducking my head. I hate the attention. I don’t want them to figure out who I am. I’ve always hated that I’m stuck with my father’s last name. A man I barely know. A man who doesn’t give a shit about me, and never really has. I wanted to be a Weatherstone like my mother, like my stepfather Jonas. Even my stepbrother Yates.
Yates Weatherstone is a mouthful. Literally and figuratively.
My stomach roils at the thought.
I go to French class, and it’s a small, enthusiastic group. The teacher is young, asking all of us to call her Amelie and she talks in animated French. She’s actually from France, and there are mostly girls in the class, which helps me relax. I introduce myself in French to everyone and they smile and nod in response, their faces friendly.
The first friendly faces I’ve seen all day.
Once it’s lunch, I go to the dining hall, impressed with the food selection. I put together a salad at the salad bar, then make my way through the many crowded tables, hating that I know no one. A couple of girls from my French class spot me and wave me over, and I sit with them, silently eating my salad as they chat around me.
“Oh God, there’s Whit,” one of them says, resting her hand over her chest. “He’s so gorgeous. Swear to God he got better looking over the summer. He’s so tan.”
No way can I turn and look at him. If he saw my face, I’m sure he’d recognize me. Of course he would. The media kept my face out of the news, but he knows exactly who I am. Just like I know who he is.
“He’s sadistic,” says the other girl. Her name is Jane, and she is far from plain. She looks like a model with her perfect features and long, lanky body. “I hear he likes to hurt girls when he ah, fucks them.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” asks the other one. I stare at her, trying to remember her name, but I can’t.
There have been too many new things today to remember them all, including names.
Jane leans in close, her voice dropping. “Farah had a thing with him last year. Nothing serious, but they’d mess around. Hook up. He was very demanding, she said. Every time he kissed her, he’d put his hand on her throat. Like he was trying to hold her down. She said sometimes his fingers would tighten, as if he were trying to actually—choke her.”
The other girl gasps. I say nothing, though of course what she says sparks my imagination. It doesn’t scare me. Nor does it shock me.
I can imagine him enjoying that. He was brutal when he was fourteen. Where could his imagination go now?
“That’s disgusting,” the girl whose name I can’t remember declares with a sneer.
Jane grins and flips her wavy blonde hair over her shoulder. “I think it’s kind of hot.”
I watch her. How she snaps her bright pink gum—she’s not eating anything at lunch—and her prissy mannerisms. This girl couldn’t handle Whit Lancaster. He’d destroy her with a touch. A glance.
“He’s so hot, I suppose I could ignore his idiosyncrasies.” The girl—I just remembered her name, it’s Caitlyn—laughs, her focus turning to me. “Have you met Whit yet?”
I slowly shake my head, but otherwise remain quiet. I’m neither confirming nor denying anything verbally.
“His family owns the school. He’s untouchable,” she says.
“Are you liking Lancaster so far?” Jane asks, tucking her hair behind her ear, snapping her gum.
“It’s a lot to take in,” I answer truthfully before I take a bite of my salad.
“Are you staying in the dorms? Or are you a day student?” This is from Caitlyn.