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CHAPTER ONE
CHARLIE
Istare at the gray cathedral-like buildings of Whitmore University, the most prestigious private school in the Pacific Northwest. Anxiety blooms in my stomach, but I swallow down the unwanted nausea and sling my backpack over my shoulder. I don’t have much with me, just a few books, some clothes, and the laptop my mom gave me.
Today is “Washington stormy,” a constant state of gloom and misty drizzle. I could have gone to a fancy school in California, but I’m not really a fan of hot weather. And while the East Coast has a lot of Big Ten schools, the thought of moving that far away from Sebastian and Marcus, my stepbrothers, after my mom’s recent death was unthinkable. I had already deferred college a year to recover from the loss, but the wound is still there, a constant, raw burn in my chest that feels like it’s melting away my heart like some sort of flesh-eating bacteria.
I walk through the wrought-iron gate, looking for some indication of where to find my dorm room assignment. Students bustle around the expansive quad, chatting and toting their belongings into various buildings. You can tell who’s local and who isn't. People running for shelter, sporting bright-colored jackets and umbrellas? They’re definitely out-of-towners. MostWashingtonians are thick-skinned and wear black jackets if they even own a coat at all. In general, we walk at a casual pace with nothing more than a sweatshirt to protect us from the incessant mist.
I tuck my long, wavy brown hair further back into my hood and head for the closest person with a clipboard. Unfortunately, that person doesn’t look very friendly. She studies me as I approach her tent and flips her intricately braided blonde hair over one shoulder. Her name tag reads “Serenity Smith.”
Perfect.
“Hi.” I give my best polite smile. “I’m looking for my dorm assignment.”
She grimaces as her eyes assess me, and I tense up. She reminds me of the mean girls from my high school. I’m dressed casually in ripped jeans, a hoodie, and Converse, which are already thoroughly soaked. By contrast, Serenity looks like Lumberjack Barbie—and I don’t mean that in a bad way—but she’s trying a bit too hard to fit into the Pacific Northwest motif with her dark skinny jeans, calf-high rain boots, and designer flannel shirt.
“Name?” Serenity asks.
“Charlie—I mean Charlotte—Bennett.”
She raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow at me, but doesn’t say anything.
“Charlie’s short for Charlotte,” I repeat lamely, trying to ease the weird heaviness weighing on my chest. I used to be better at “peopling,” but after months of limited human interaction, my skills feel disjointed and rusty, like I’m the Tin Man fromThe Wizard of Oz, desperate for some social oil.
She makes a noise under her breath that’s something between a snort and a snicker. “Oookay,” she murmurs.
She flips through the pages on her clipboard before turning to a boy standing to her right. He’s chatting with a group ofstudents who’re hauling over what looks like grocery bags of marshmallows, chocolate bars, and graham crackers.
“Brantley, do you have a Charlotte Bennett on your list? Her name isn’t on my roster.”
He turns and walks over to us, scanning his list. He looks up at me with warm hazel eyes.
“Well, well, I do, in fact, have Miss Bennett on my list. You’re in the Raven Building in”—he raises his eyebrows—“a private suite? How’d you pull that off?”
I shrug, feeling self-conscious. “It was part of my scholarship, I guess.”
Serenity frowns. “You got one of the private suites? I’ve been on the waiting list for two years. Typical that they would just give it to a charity case.”
I bristle at her remark, clutching my backpack straps tightly. I’m about to tell her where to shove her sparkly pink pen, but Brantley steps in first.
“Stop being a cunt, Seren,” he says, watching me with interest.
Serenity scowls at him.
He winks and hands me an envelope with my name and room number on the back. “The Raven Building is the last one on your left,” says Brantley. “It has a raven statue out front, so you can’t miss it.”
CHAPTER TWO
CHARLIE
Despite being a single “suite,” my dorm room is pretty small, but that suits me just fine. The walls are a calming shade of blue, and it has one window overlooking the woods behind the school. Being on the sixteenth floor, I can’t complain about the view. In the distance, through a break in the heavy clouds, I can see the snowy peak of Mt. Baker blushing pink in the light of the sunset.
My room has a twin bed adorned with a fluffy gray duvet (another scholarship perk, apparently), a simple oak desk in one corner, and a closet with more than enough space to house my meager collection of clothing.
After I unpack, I walk out into the hallway, exploring the communal bathrooms and laundry facilities. Everything is close and clean. No complaints here.
After returning to my room, I sit down, wondering what I should do next. There’s a knock at my door. Puzzled, I walk over and open it. A girl stands in the doorway. She has beautiful long auburn hair, flawless, pale skin, and adorable freckles peppered across her petite nose. Her green eyes light up as she takes me in, and she smiles widely.
