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less, and that number includes the one scholarship student who’s accepted yearly.
Well, two this year.
Backed by a board of wealthy investors keen on supplementing the education of America’s best, it provides over fifty degrees from tech to the arts, molding young minds for a bright, successful future.
At least, that is the impression that Ms. Nielson tried to instill in me when she told me the ins and outs of the school.
Standing before it, I can admit that Hawthorne is pretty to look at, but I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t give off the most pretentious vibes I’ve ever seen in a building before. Probably doesn’t help that the lot is packed full of equally pretentious, equally expensive sports cars.
Brody had a thing for car shows, and he kept a shit ton of magazines around the house. I recognize the models in the lot from all those magazines, from all the times Brody practically gave himself a boner babbling about those cars.
Aston Martins. Maseratis. Ferraris.
They’re all here in the lot, in cobalt blues and liquid silvers, in flashes of candy apple reds for the ones needing to stand out a little more among their peers.
Me? My sexy ride is a shuttle bus, dropping me at the front of this sea of opulence. That is a courtesy of the school, and I have the school to thank for the preemptive delivery of my belongings from the halfway house to the dorms here at Hawthorne. The admins seem determined to prove their goodwill toward their underprivileged students.
I reach into the back pocket of my ripped jeans and pull out the pamphlet detailing everything new students need to know to “adjust and acclimate” to campus life. A handy little map is laid out on one page of the pamphlet, telling me where to find the administration building.
It’s a Friday afternoon, and classes won’t start until Monday, so the campus is pretty dead as I walk across the manicured lawn.
No complaints here.
I suppress a snort. I know I’ll have to meet the other students eventually, but I imagine that none of these rich shits with their fancy cars and trust funds will look favorably upon the dyed-haired, tattooed stranger who’s invaded their precious school grounds.
Not like I actually give a shit what they think.
Pocketing my map since I have a good idea of where I’m going, I’m about to veer left toward a large stone building when a wave of dizziness hits me hard. The breeze shifts, carrying the heavy scent of lilacs to my nostrils, and the cloying, potent fragrance only makes the dizziness worse.
My feet stumble to a halt, and I sway slightly, wishing I had something to fucking hold on to for balance. I may not give a shit what these rich assholes think of me, but life has taught me not to show weakness around people I don’t trust—which is pretty much everyone.
Fuck.
Can’t I have an episode somewhere else?
Preferably in solitude, where the potential blackout won’t gain me an unwanted audience.
My chest hurts. My head feels like it’s going to split open. I swallow down the metallic taste of bile, trying to close my nostrils off to the too sweet, too cloying scent.
Shit. First the episode on my last day at the McAlisters’ house, and now this. I don’t like how off-kilter I feel at the mercy of my fucked up brain.
The breeze shifts again, and I manage to force my feet to carry me forward. A few more yards and the floral smell fades from the air, allowing me to drag in deeper breaths. I clench my hands into fists as I force my head to clear, dragging myself away from the edge of an attack.
Suddenly, a body slams into mine.
My already not-quite-there balance is thrown off entirely, but a strong arm wraps around me before I can go down like a sack of bricks.
“Whoa there, my bad. Was on my phone and didn’t see you there.”
“That’s what happens when you don’t listen when someone tells you to watch where you’re going,” a second deep voice chimes in.
I pull away from the first speaker’s hold, steadying myself through sheer willpower alone. My vision is still a little blurry, but when it settles and clears, I turn around to find myself looking at two guys close to my age.
One is blond and built like a fucking linebacker, like he could go toe-to-toe with Jason Mamoa himself. His light brown eyes gleam with amusement, as if something funny just happened, and a goofy grin quirks his lips, showcasing twin dimples in his cheeks.
Beside him stands a guy with messy dark hair and eyes that are such a deep brown they look almost black. He’s surprisingly tatted up for a school like this—honestly, I sort of expected to be the only person on campus with any ink. The design on his left arm emerges from under the sleeve of his T-shirt, snaking all the way down to his wrist.
He looks vaguely familiar, although maybe it’s just because I’ve seen his I don’t give a fuck expression on so many faces before.
