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I sigh, letting my shoulders slump. How can I expect Bryce to keep his hands to himself when I’m hell-bent on drop-kicking his ass every time I see him? Everyone at Stonehaven knows me as the girl that slapped Pierce and who can’t speak a sentence without cursing.
I smile at the mental image of a shrieking Bryce sailing through the air, but this is wrong. The boy hates me, and now, I owe him money. He has something in mind, and my self-preservation needs to wise up and send me running in the opposite direction.
My phone vibrates in my pocket with an urgent message from the main office. I’m to report to the office immediately and ask for Dr. Marianne Rawlins. Fuck.
Christ, even I’m getting tired of saying that word.
I stare at my phone and debate why she would want to see me. And a chill races down my spine and gives me a good shake. What if I’m in trouble for slapping people? What if they kick me out for it?
Or, God forbid, it could be something wrong with Mom. I haven’t actually spoken to her since we both left the apartment. I don’t like how my mind is confusing me. At Monarch, I could stare a problem down with a hand firmly on my hip, and now, I want to sniff books and slide on polished floors.
Fuck. Shit. Oh, screw it.
I run toward Foxworth House on the other side of the campus for my appointment. Naturally, the tall building is red brick, but it has several white columns like a larger version of the post office in Rockingham. I huff up the steps, forgetting I’m wearing a skirt, and race into the office, almost knocking over a skittish freshman. The flustered girl flees before it occurs to me to say sorry.
A grown woman behind the counter glares at me. She only looks old because she’s giving me an uppity attitude. She doesn’t want to hear anything from my mouth as she places her attention back on her computer screen. A brass bell similar to the kind in an old black and white movie sits on the counter, separating her from me. I tap it, and the lady glances over at me as if I shouldn’t touch her shit.
“I got an urgent email for Dr. Marianne Rawlins,” I answer her raised eyebrows.
The woman glares. “I’m sure it’s not urgent.”
“But it is,” I reply.
The woman goes right back to ignoring me, and I have to wonder if it’s personal. I tap the bell again, and the look she gives me would cracked solid ice. Patience is something I try to practice but have yet to perfect. Staring at her, I smile like the girls that float around campus with their designer bags from Paris.
“I’m just going to email her back.” I pull out my phone. “And tell her I’m here waiting outside her office while you sit there.” I tap the blank screen she can’t see. “…and send.”
The woman hoists her ass out of her chair and moves toward a wooden door on the right-hand side of the counter. She frowns in my direction then knocks twice on the closed door. Not believing a word I’ve said, she starts making excuses when the door opens.
“This student says it’s urgent,” she announces, and a woman—Dr. Marianne Rawlins—steps out of the office.
To me, Dr. Marianne Rawlins always seems like an older version of half the girls on campus. She probably never left Stonehaven. She is an attractive woman, slightly older than my mom but in better shape. And she has on the neatest suit I’ve ever seen. She must stand all day because there’s not a wrinkle on it. Her hair is silvery blonde and pinned back in a loose bun. She has on turquoise-colored glasses and a simple gold watch on her wrist. She screams class without opening her mouth.
“Hello,” I smile tentatively. “My name is Astrid Bowen.”
“I remember you.” She extends her arm toward me and waves me into her office. “So you’ve received my emails, Astrid?”
I nod as I walk into a room that only this woman could sit in. It looks like an intelligent person works here, with crammed bookcases against the walls. And the furniture resembles antiques from a museum—an enormous oak desk a person could hide in, velvet sofas with carved wooden arms, and a carpet with a crazy circular pattern. It’s missing a lot of threads, but I guess she’s attached to it. I’m careful not to step on the bare spots.
“Astrid, please sit down.” Dr. Rawlins points to a wingback chair while she sits behind her desk. “How is school?” Before I can answer, she opens a desk drawer and pulls out an envelope.
“It’s fine,” I answer stiffly. Dr. Rawlins isn’t going to want to hear it sucks, except for Professor Getz’s club, of course.
But Dr. Rawlins stares through me as if my genuine thoughts are printed on my brain, and she’s reading each one. “That’s good.” She pushes the white envelope across the desk. “Astrid, this is for you from your father.”
I take the envelope and rip it open, finding a debit card inside with my name on it. I unfold the bank statement that it’s wrapped in, and my mouth swings open before I can catch it. The balance is fifteen hundred dollars. I can pay Bryce back.
“It’s an allowance of sorts,” she states, “It should be enough for pocket money. Maybe buy some décor for your dorm room?”
Folding it up, I wonder how much Dr. Rawlins knows about my week at Stonehaven. Does she know I slap boys? Or sneak off campus? Or owe Bryce money? An uncomfortable feeling descends over me as I form a sneaky plan in my head.
“I’d like to thank my father,” I reply coolly, “but I left his cell number in Mom’s apartment, and she’s traveling. I don’t have it in my phone. Would you have it?”
“Nice try, kid,” she replies, “if you need anything else, please let me know.” She stands up and opens the door, and then motions the way out like an airline stewardess pointing to the emergency exits.
