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Chapter 1
PENELOPE
Foraseventeen-year-old,thereweren’ttoomanythingsmoredreadedthanthefirstdayofschool.Atleastnotwhenyouhadanamelikemine.Firstdaysmeantnewclassesandteachersandpotentiallynewstudents—allsolidopportunitiesforintroductions.You’dthinkbynowI’dbeusedtothefreshtortureofhearingmynamespokenaloudinrollcall,butnope.Thepettinessofhighschoolmeantmakingfunofyourpeersnevergotold.CertainlynotwhenyournamewasPenelopeEwe.Lastnamepronouncedlike“you.”
My father and friends call me P for short, so when you string them together . . .
Yeah.Pee-yew, as in stinky. Smelly. Fetid. Funky. Rank.
Basically, I stink. Not really. But apparently the juvenile joke that started in grade school still hasn’t gotten old. Combine that with my family's financial inferiority and my penchant for thrift store finds and I’m chum in an ocean full of sharks. That is, if sharks wore Gucci and drove Bentleys.
Naturally, to commemorate the day of doom, last night I painted my nails a deep gold. The color of nervousness. Because I didn’t need to be prophetic to anticipate how I’d feel this morning.
I took in a deep breath, allowing the scent of freshly sharpened pencils, coffee, and books to center me like they always did. Glancing around the classroom, I urged the tightening in my chest to subside as I skimmed the room full of my fellow first-period classmates. By now, all the faces were familiar, and among them, I homed in on any potential friends and foes, an imperative step necessary for my survival.
Several friendly faces blinked back at me. I nodded to them in greeting, my smile open and warm despite my nerves, until a cacophony of voices from the hallway grabbed my attention and my palms dampened.
I glanced toward the door and broke out into a cold sweat. None other than Topher Elliot, complete with his posse in tow, tumbled into the classroom.
I nearly choked on their superiority. Or maybe it was the overwhelming stench of their overpriced cologne burning my sinuses. Who knew?
They drifted to the back of the room with their lazy smiles, easy laughter, and cocky swagger—typical Royal demeanor.
I bit the inside of my cheek and shifted my focus from them, back to the front of the classroom, wondering why the water polo team was nothing more than a bunch of egotistical meatheads and how Topher got to be King. I mean, sure, he was beautiful, if you liked pretty boys with skin the color of golden toffee and hair bleached from long days spent in the sun. Forget the eyes so blue they were nearly violet because when it came to what was inside that grudgingly-gorgeous head, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was dumb as a box of rocks. He probably copied all his homework or forced some nerd to do it for him and cheated on all of his tests. After all, he and his crew only seemed to care about a few things: girls, sports, and proving to the rest of us peasants how amazing they were.
I listened to the ruckus while they settled in behind me as Ms. Stone walked in. She was in her twenties with curly dark hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a pleasant smile. Plump lips painted a deep red sat below high cheekbones. Her pencil skirt skimmed the bottom of her knees and her kitten heels clacked when she walked.
By all standards, she had an amazing body hidden beneath her conservative clothing. She reminded me of Julia Roberts circaMy Best Friend’s Wedding. She was the token “hot teacher” and decades younger than half the teachers at Lakeview. So when his majesty made a snarky remark about needing special tutoring this semester, among the catcalls of his friends, my blood boiled at the misogyny.
Ah, yes, just what every beautiful, educated twenty-something woman wants—an entitled pubescent boy still living with Mommy and Daddy hitting on her.
The girl sitting next to me choked out a laugh and offered me a fist bump, which I returned, slightly confused, arm limp as a noodle.
“Roasted.” The girl snickered.
My brows knitted together as I glanced around me to find several amused expressions and dawning sank in my chest like a rock.
I said that out loud.
Kill me now.
The mutinous glare from JT—one of Topher’s friends—burned a hole in the side of my head, confirming this theory. Nothing like putting a target on my back on the first day.
I slid down in my chair, hiding behind my curtain of dark hair as Ms. Stone introduced herself and filled us in on all of the banal things we’d learn in economics this semester, and just when I began to feel more comfortable again, she asked us to go around the room and introduce ourselves.
Perfect.
The students around me groaned. She was one ofthoseteachers. So lame. But me? My heart became an earthquake shuddering inside my chest.
I clenched the edges of my seat as each of my classmates introduced themselves with bored expressions and it grew closer to my turn. The girl in front of me said her name loud and clear—Amanda Greene. A normal name. One nobody would make fun of.
Jealousy twisted in my chest like a knife. And just like that, it was my turn.
Ms. Stone turned her eyes on me, and I froze. Suddenly, it was the first day of sixth grade again—my first day ever at Lakeview Prep after receiving my scholarship when I was forced to stand in front of the class while the principal introduced me to my fellow peers.
It went something like this . . .Everyone, this is a new student transferring into the gifted program from Greenwood, her name is Penelope Ewe. Let’s give her a warm welcome.
Then I made the ultimate mistake of piping up with,Myfriends call me P.
