“Do you have any questions for me? Oh,” she says as if she remembered one last thing. “More money has been allocated to your position. Instead of $157,000 annually, your salary will be $177,000.”
Salary?I don’t care about a salary. I’m not supposed to be there long enough to collect a first paycheck.
I force a smile to help me muster the right reaction. “Oh, that’s great.” My tone fails to match my words.
“I think so too. And you have no other questions, right?”
“Not today,” I sing.That’s better.
“Good. Welcome to team Lark.”
I thank her, and we say goodbye. As soon as I drop the cellphone on top of my desk, I tug at the collar of my T-shirt, gasping for air, praying those thick molecules that I’m breathing deep into my throat will stop suffocating me.
Nine Years Ago
Chapter Two
The Boy In My Class
Paisley Grove
Mrs. Fontaine, my sixth-period teacher, looks at me, and I know it’s not going to be good.
“Before we say goodbye to your high school careers, let’s give a round of applause and a big congratulations to Paisley Grove for her well-deserved full scholarship to the Albrecht Institute of Technology,” she announces.
And now, she’s clapping like a dolphin. I stare at my doodles as if willing my spiral of circles to grow on its own. If I could hide inside my skin, I would. It takes a few seconds for my classmates to be lured into lazy applause. I’m not surprised by their reluctance to wish me well. My senior year of high school, which should have been the best of them all, has been the worst.
I’m an outsider. I arrived at Dorset Meacham Academy, a private school on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, a week after school started last year. My grandpa, the famous Charles Gregory Grove and my favorite person in the world, passed away three weeks before the start of the school year, and his second son—my father, Xander Clyde Grove—took over the role of chairman and CEO of Grove Investment Bank. That meant our family had to pack up and move from our perfect lake house in Agoura Hills, California, to a building that consists of five townhouses made into one big-ass monstrosity of a house having fifteen bedrooms and fourteen bathrooms and a lot of other useless space. I find the high ceilings, drafty rooms, loads of crown molding, and coffered ceilings extremely unpleasant. The gaudy furniture looks like something a tourist would see during an unremarkable royal-mansions-of-Europe tour, and all of it is too uncomfortable to lounge on.
My grandparents used to live here. Well, mostly my grandfather. My grandmother, Leslie Swanson Grove, is a wildlife-conservation photographer, and ever since I was very young, she’s spent more of her days living out in the wilderness than inside their oversized home. After Grandfather died, Grandmother was ready to donate the place to charity, but my father insisted we move in instead.
I voiced my objections about living in the house, complete with a written list of well-thought-out reasons to move into a more modern condo. My highlights were the energy we would consume to keep a house this size heated and cooled, how ostentatious we must appear to the average human being, and finally, the ghosts. I swear the place is haunted by a lot of eccentric leftovers from centuries past.
“Ghosts do not exist, Paisley,” my father replied. “We’re living here—get used to it. If anyone is able to adjust to this change, it’s you, sweetheart. I need you to be strong for us.” Then he kissed my forehead, complimented me for how succinct my argument was, and left for the office. The end.
I’m not a crier or a pouter, and my dad knows that. So does my mom. So they’ve never heard about how unhappy I’ve been since moving to the city, and contrary to Dad’s belief, I’m not “adjusting.”
The worst part of the move was leaving lifelong friends behind, people I’ve known since first grade. I’m shy and nerdy, and just like I thought, it will take another eighteen years to build a network of friends like the ones I have in Agoura Hills. At this school, I have no true friends. The way my classmates here treat me is very odd. No one’s outright mean to me, but they’re not friendly, either. I’ve been thinking maybe that’s because I’m a Grove. According to the last Forbes report, we’re the fourth richest family in the world, and we’re still climbing in rank.
The other students may also find my bodyguards off-putting. Jim, Dennis, and Mike are fairly new additions to my life. Last summer, my cousin Treasure reported she’d been kidnapped, but I know the truth. No malevolent forces had snatched her off the street and held her for ransom—she’d been off with a boy. Her lie was elaborate, though. It included two creepy notes asking for ten million dollars and then, two weeks later, an escape story after she showed up at her family home’s iron gates with self-inflicted bruises. Treasure said her lover wouldn’t dare lay a hand on her even if she begged him to. Still, she’s never revealed who the guy was, only that her parents—Uncle Leo and Aunt Londyn, my father’s brother and his wife—wouldn’t approve. Her lie has made it difficult for me, though. Each day, I struggle with breaking my vow of secrecy and blurting out the truth to my parents.
However, Leo and Londyn aren’t making Treasure suffer for her lie, and it’s not like they would ever hold her accountable if they knew the truth. They’ll let Treasure get away with murder. I’m the one with the overprotective parents. I’m the one who’s been assigned bodyguards because of her two-week tryst with some mystery man. So now, Jim, Dennis, and Mike are always posted at the front and back of the school and outside of my classroom. Their presence could be another reason why I have no friends here. And as far as boyfriends go, no boy ever gets too close to me. My dad made it a point to remind my bodyguards to give me breathing room, but everyone knows they’re around, waiting to pounce on those who are intent on doing me harm.
Basically, when my classmates think of me, they don’t get a warm, fuzzy feeling. And that’s fine. I don’t take their detachment personally. Putting myself in their shoes, I’d avoid the rich girl with three burly men guarding her too. So their forced applause isn’t the reason why the back of my neck and cheeks are burning and my head feels like it’s floating to the ceiling. It’s Hercules Valentine, the most gorgeous and mysteriously interesting boy I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Is he looking at me? Is he clapping?
Without stealing a glance, I wonder if he’s aiming his probing eyes, kissable lips, and chiseled features in my direction. The breath I finally release trembles as I fight the urge to soothe my curiosity.
Not yet, Paisley. Don’t look yet.
In this class, Global Economics, we sit in the same row. Lyle Gant is the only body positioned between us. Sometimes, in my peripheral vision, I watch Hercules’s hands take notes or his fingers tap quietly but impatiently on the top of the desk. And sometimes, he transforms my heart into a swarm of butterflies fluttering their wings when he stares at me, seemingly unaware that he’s doing it.
“Go ahead and stand up, Paisley,” Mrs. Fontaine says.
Her words send something that feels like an electromagnetic pulse through me. For a moment, I think I’m going to pass out. Questions overwhelm me.Do I look extra fat in my skirt?The button popped on the band during second period, but no one can see the mishap under the hem of my shirt. But also…
Is he watching me or staring at his doodling or, even worse, gazing restlessly out the window, paying no attention to me at all?
