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I shook my head with a suppressed groan. "How so?"
"You were supposed to come here before, right?"
"Three years ago.”
"So, what happened?" She cocked her head to the side, studying me.
"I wanted to keep going with the show." It was the truth, but it made me feel like a loser for doing something about my career. The fact was, it wasn’t cool to be worried about the future. Not when you’re almost freaking eighteen and still holding onto your cherry. Not that I’d ever admit that to Andromeda. "I was happy having lecturers on set until…” I didn’t need to finish that sentence. My five minutes of fame were over. I might have been a star once, but now, I was infamous. From America’s sweetheart to the nation’s problem child! I still remembered the headlines.
"The Life and Times of Devin Mooney. Loved it. You were like the best one on that show. I watched it from the start, just stopped when I… you know…”
I laughed when she trailed off. “Until you got too old for it. I get it. It’s why the ratings went down the last three seasons.”
She smiled with relief, asking, “How many were there?”
“Nine. I played Devin for nine years. A long time.” I’d lived and breathed that role. I was Devin Mooney, the fun, bubbly pop star who split her time between her life at home and the stage. Yeah, Hannah Montana, I did it better than you.
I’d been a child prodigy. Until a few months ago, I looked the part, too, with long, golden hair and a pretty doll face to match. These days, I barely recognized the girl in the mirror. She was not who I used to be. I realized Andromeda was still talking and tuned into her words again.
“But when all the other stuff happened… You know, when that scandal made you—”
I rushed to step in front of her, my hands grabbing her slim wrists. I felt nauseous at the thought of her bringing it up, bile threatened to rise in my stomach. Not again. Please, God, not again. "Don't say anything," I begged. "Don't talk about it. I'm trying— I'm trying to have a fresh start at Wildwood. I don’t think I can handle it right now.”
"Of course." She squeezed my hand, her smile replacing a worried grimace as if it were already forgotten. "Hey, want to eat lunch together today?"
I was surprised by her indifference, how easy it was for her to move on as if nothing had happened. Suddenly grateful, I grinned at her and nodded. "I'd like that."
The school bell sounded, and Andromeda rushed past me, her flyers rustling as she went inside the two-story building. "I'll find you in the cafeteria!" she yelled over her shoulder, and I found myself nodding.
Well, at least I'd made a friend. Better than fucking nothing.
I came to a shaky stop when a body slammed into me from behind. The push was so rough, I stumbled forward, barely avoiding a fall. I glanced up to the sound of nearby laughter, feeling my heart hammering. Holy shit, I could’ve broken a limb. A cute, squarely built guy smirked at me from behind and kept walking, his crew following behind and snickering. I drank him in, remembering every detail from his thousand-dollar sneakers to the hundred-watt smile that was nearly blinding.
Shit list: activated. First victim: found.
Shame blazed on my cheeks from the unprovoked attack. I knew my first day would be a shitshow, but I hadn’t realized I’d stand out quite so much. I’d agonized over my appearance that morning, grateful that I was forced to wear a uniform. I’d customized my navy-and-gold skirt with an embroidered patch of a cartoon cherry and some hearts. The way I tied my shirt above my navel may have been a bit too Britney in the “Hit Me Baby One More Time” era, but I thought I looked cute. Of course, the thing that stood out the most were my studded Givenchy army boots, but on second thought, my lavender-grey hair didn’t exactly make me blend in, either. I’d underestimated the students at Wildwood. They may have been young, but they behaved—and dressed—like royalty. Almost as prissy and just as fancy. Now, the fear that I’d be mocked and ridiculed for a multitude of reasons washed over me again.
I heaved a sigh before walking into the building. I’d underestimated the time it would take me to find my classroom, and by the time I had managed to stumble down the now-empty hallway, I was late. Knocking on the door, I entered with burning, blotchy skin, feeling the shame flame harder than my twisting stomach. The moment my foot stepped over the threshold; the place went deadly quiet.
“I see we have a late student joining us.”
My eyes were glued to the twenty or so students before me. I had to tear my gaze away to find a man standing before the blackboard. He was ridiculously handsome. Jesus Christ, did everyone here look like they should model for Calvin Klein?
&
nbsp; “I’m sorry,” I managed. My eyes danced between his blue eyes and the dark hair. Like a regular Clark Kent. “I got a bit lost… It’s my first day.”
“Ah, you must be Tinsley.” He nodded, giving me a crooked smile. “Why don’t you stand in front of the class and introduce yourself.”
Excuse me? Are we suddenly in a 90s teen movie? I gave him a shaky smile, swallowing the words I wanted to throw in his face. Now, my eyes went to the students that sat before us, and my blood ran as cold as ice water. There were about twenty like I’d estimated before, all of them with picture-perfect nose jobs, expensive hair extensions, and wardrobes models would be jealous of. The pressure is on. I felt like a fraud standing there, never as thankful for the uniform making me seem like I fit in.
Except for the fucking purple hair.
“Well?” The professor grinned at me, motioning to the class. “We’re all waiting, Ms. Sullivan.”
It was then that someone laughed, and my stomach sank even deeper. I followed the sound until my eyes settled on Crispin.
Crispin Dalton. Lacrosse god of Wildwood High and the heartthrob of every teenage girl in the country. Six-feet-five, about as ripped as Noah Centineo—excuse me, yum—and offering the world the knowledge that eight-packs do exist. And let’s not forget, he also had a face modeling agencies fought over, and a slew of talents that would ensure he'd have any career he wanted. Be it professional sports, model, actor, or musician, Crispin would have an amazing life no matter what. And somehow, my own mess-up had only made things easier for him.
