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Chapter 2
Astrid
If I had bet on Mask last night, I wouldn’t have to go to work in the morning. I passed my driver’s test but can’t afford a car, not even a beater, so I ride a thrift-store bike to work. I know the second I leave my neighborhood and enter the rich town of Rockingham. The streets widen, and the houses aren’t crammed together.
You can always tell the rich people’s homes by the length of the lawn from the house to the curb. I ride my bike down Oak Street with mansions on either side. These aren’t even the big ones. The gigantic ones are hidden behind stone gates with mounted cameras and brutal guard dogs. New Hampshire is known for its granite, but instead of gold, the rich made a fortune in the quarries.
I whip my leg over my bike, balancing on one pedal as I sweep under the stone archway and follow the road that leads to Stonehaven Academy. The buildings I zoom past are made of red brick and have stood in place for hundreds of years as guardians of higher learning. I read that in the school brochure. But this isn’t my school. I sneer at the thought as I prop my bike up against the back wall of the dining hall where I work. This is the only place I belong at Stonehaven Academy, not that I care.
“You’re late, and you look like crap, Astrid. What time did the cat drag you home last night?” My boss, Gary, eyes me as I slip on my apron. He used to hang out at the Pit until he married a middle-class woman from Rockingham. Gary used to be cool, but good manners fucked up his personality.
“I’m not that late,” I reply, “and that’s not your fucking business.”
He frowns at me as he scoops a pit out of an avocado. “A point for cursing,” he scowls, “and put on your hat.”
I glare at him, wishing I had called out sick, but I need every cent I earn for rent. I shove my paper hat on my head and smooth down my shapeless white dress.
“The longer you scowl, the less work you get done.” He motions toward the pail in the corner beside the industrial wipes. “Breakfast is almost over. Start wiping the tables.”
Yeah, he’s pissed about something. Usually I don’t have to go out front. I spend my workdays prepping vegetables. I grab the wipes and the pail. Well, it’s work no matter where I do it, but I’d rather not clean tables while the rich kids watch me.
“Where’s everyone else?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Don’t know and don’t care anymore.” He huffs.
I get it now. Whoever is on with me is a no-show, plus I’m late. I’d apologize, but it’s smarter to ignore his crap until it blows over. Gary watches as I walk through the swinging door into the main dining room. I glance around the room at the long wooden tables. It’s a lot of tables to wipe, and I start in the corner closest to the kitchen, which is usually empty. The students don’t like sitting by the kitchen door unless they want to keep a low profile or make a demand on the staff.
The old-fashioned hall was once the academy’s church until a donor built a new one. The interior is lit with gigantic brass chandeliers, but the room is illuminated by a beautiful stained glass window that spans the length of the building on the farthest wall. Instead of a religious scene, it depicts workers excavating granite out of the quarry—an image of common laborers in the jeweled, leaded glass where rich kids now eat.
I stop to stare at the colorful window while dragging a wipe across a tabletop. Then I skip a few tables where people are sitting as per Gary’s standing instructions. Of course, a pig left a tray behind with a half-eaten sandwich. The person picked out the lettuce and left it on the table instead of on the tray. I don’t have my gloves, so I use the corner of a wipe to pick it up. Spoiled fucking brats. I feel eyes on me as I toss the grossness into the pail. Maybe one of the brats is fascinated with hard work. Or more likely, they probably want to bust on me and call me the help. Sometimes they’re really helpful and point out the spots I missed.
I look up, and I’m ready to give the nosy twat who’s staring a sneaky middle finger. But the hostility drains out of me, leaving my mind reeling. It’s that guy from the Pit—the one with the mask, staring back at me. He’s seated with three other boys, probably all seniors. Stonehaven doesn’t require uniforms during the summer session, and Mask is dressed in decent-looking clothes—expensive fabric with a close fit. He’s a rich kid.
“What are you staring at, Wyatt?” A blond guy across from him looks over his shoulder, and his eyes go straight to my legs. He scoffs and shakes his head. “She’s definitely tastier than the runny avocado on dry toast,” quips the blond, tossing his food back onto the plate. “Are you going to spend the afternoon sending her longing looks, or do you plan to approach her?”
“Shut up, Bryce,” growls Wyatt.
“I’ve been observing her too,” laughs another guy at the table with short, light brown hair, “and it has lovely legs.”
I’m an it?
The other guy with the long hair doesn’t say a word as he gazes in my direction like I’m trapped behind glass at a zoo. Well, fuck him too. I ignore them and finish wiping crud off the tables. I move to the left, away from their table, and wait for them to take their asses out of here so I can finish.
I put my back into it, and my hand turns into a blur as I work. When I look up again, the hall is empty. I wipe my forehead on the back of my hand and start setting up for lunch. We have an hour before service starts, and without the ambient noise in the hall, the voices carry from the kitchen.
The afternoon crew is in, and Gary is shouting orders at the top of his ear-piercing lungs. He gives a shit about cursing, but not enough about volume. I drag my feet slowly to the swinging door, knowing if I don’t make an appearance, I’m going to get chewed out for being lazy though every surface in the hall is shining from my hard work.
“Time is precious,” shouts Gary, “and it’s the only commodity you have to give me, so don’t screw it up!”
“You mean fuck it up,” I reply. Quickly, I slip out the back door for my break. I start walking around the corner of the building when a hand grips my upper arm and pulls me against the wall. I will tell this person off if he doesn’t get his paws off me, but it’s Mask. Or Wyatt. Or whoever he is today.
I stare into his deep brown eyes, and my lips part when he stares into mine. The strength of his body pulses off him, enclosing me in his energy. I’m rocking chills all over my skin because close up, this boy is definitely delicious. Tall and strong with my tattoo on his back. Without thinking, I lick my lips.
“Listen, I have to talk to you,” he says, dragging me toward the back of the building.
I stumble after him, trying to keep up with his long strides as his hand tightens on my arm. Now, I think I’m not so lucky after all.
“Slow down and let me go,” I snap.
