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Bring it.
I repeat my new mantra as I pull on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, knowing damn well that I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb here.
Dressed, messenger bag in hand and my textbooks all digitally uploaded onto my school-issued tablet, I head out.
Hawthorne University boasts an intimate campus, where everything students need is on the grounds. There’s a laundry service, an on-campus café and convenience store, and a student union that’s essentially a glorified dining hall with a fully staffed kitchen—though it’s weird as hell to think that they have chefs making gourmet food like it’s a Michelin star restaurant and not a fucking university.
But I’m hungry, and my ID card gets me three comped meals a day. So even though I stocked up my little apartment with snacks and staples over the weekend, I make my way to the student union for breakfast before my first class.
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nbsp; I don’t miss the lingering stares and whispers that follow me. I clearly haven’t stopped being a topic of conversation, even though I’ve been basically locked up in my dorm since my encounter with Gray.
I get my food, earning a look from the guy who fills my order when I swipe my student ID and the words Scholarship Meal Plan flash across the screen.
Great. Even the fucking cafeteria staff here are snobby.
People are gathered in little clusters at round tables, eating their breakfasts. This place looks nothing like any school cafeteria I’ve ever been in, but I follow one very simple, time honored rule—find the empty table and claim it.
Ignoring the sidelong glances and whispered words that follow me, I start eating my breakfast at one of the smaller tables that isn’t overrun by one of the many cliquish groups occupying the others. After a few minutes of me not doing anything more exciting than eating, I feel people’s attention start to drift away.
That’s another time-honored rule I’ve learned the hard way. Don’t feed the beast, and eventually it’ll die. If I keep my head down and don’t give anyone a reason to notice me, they’ll pick an easier, more interesting target.
I’m about halfway through my breakfast when a girl comes toward my table. She lingers at the side of it like she doesn’t want to get too close to me.
“Hey, scholarship girl.”
I slowly chew my bite and make a show of swallowing. She shifts on her feet, uncomfortable, as I stare at her directly in the eyes. Her nervousness is almost fucking comical. What does she think I have, some sort of disease?
“I have a name, you know,” I say dryly.
She doesn’t acknowledge that, shifting on her feet again like she’s considering sprinting for the hills. My brows pull together, and I set my fork down, giving her my full attention.
She’s definitely nervous, but I was wrong before. She’s not scared of me.
“Listen.” She drops her head a little, her voice so quiet I have to strain to hear it. “I heard about your public spat with Gray Eastwood. Take it from me: keeping up in this place is brutal enough without getting on the Sinners’ bad sides. Especially Gray’s. It’s worse for scholarship students. No one thinks you belong here. You’re basically a plaything, especially when you’re a girl.”
The Sinners? What the fuck does that mean?
“Why do you care?” I narrow my eyes. “You another scholarship student?”
The girl shakes her head. “No. But I don’t have to be on scholarship to be a decent person. And coming from someone who’s lived this life and been a part of this world since birth? You have no idea what you’re getting into.”
Her gaze darts around nervously again, like she expects there to be a sniper in one corner ready to take her out. Then she turns around suddenly and hurries away to rejoin her friends at another table.
Her friends have all been watching us, and I lock gazes with one of them, who stares me down before she leans over to the chick that spoke to me. Nervous Girl waves her friend off, going about her breakfast like nothing happened between us.
I shrug, shaking it off. She acted like she was spilling state secrets, but honestly, it’s not like she told me anything I don’t already know.
Does she think she’s helping me?
Or maybe it’s just some stupid hazing thing, and she and all her friends are just trying to scare me.
Breakfast is otherwise uneventful, and after I’m finished I head to my first class, Intro to American Lit. Standard first day shit ensues. My professor introduces herself as Doctor Carson—a real PhD holder; I’m in the presence of greatness, clearly—and then goes on to explain that this class will not be easy and that we’ll have to work hard to keep up.
“Some of us more than others,” she adds.
Maybe it’s a fucking coincidence that her gaze lands on me as she says it, but the soft titters I hear from the back of the class make me doubt that. I clench my teeth together, pressing my pencil into my paper so hard the lead almost snaps.
