Chapter 2

I used to think it’d make us friends.

Two moon-eyed freshmen who’d watch each other’s backs as they tread the same shark-infested waters.

Except, Mickey’s managed to tread these waters much better than I have. If you squint, you can almost imagine he’s one of them.

And hanging around me has the opposite effect.

Just one more year.

I can survive one more year here.

I’m still sulking when the cafeteria doors swing open, and the room seems to take a collective pause as Lionswood’s golden boy steps through.

After four years, I should be used to the sheer amount of attention that Adrian Ellis’ presence commands, but it still feels surreal. Every head turns his way. Conversations halt. People pause mid-chew.

It might as well be a ticketed event.

“Hey Adrian! We’ll see you at the game this Friday, right?”

“Your hair looks so good today, Adrian. What products do you use?”

“You’re welcome to sit with us, Adrian!”

“I saw your meet last week, Adrian. You were awesome.”

“Can I buy you lunch, Adrian?”

If he’s fazed by the praise or admiration, it never shows on his face. He accepts the compliments humbly, making rounds to wish the Lacrosse team luck and joke with the theater kids. He asks Roddy Locke if he’s recovering from his broken leg alright. He takes a detour by the chocolate muffins to purchase one – and drop five-hundred dollars into the donation box while he’s there.

“Thank you so much, Adrian!” The marching band kids sing, mouths agape. It’s like watching Lionswood’s very own Mother Teresa in action.

One of them tries handing him the entire basket of chocolate muffins in return, but he just shakes his head with an easy smile. “No, that’s alright. I just wanted to support the team.” Even his voice is annoyingly perfect – smooth and low like velvet against the skin.

“Adrian!” This time, it’s Sophie’s voice who rings out over the rest. She gestures him over with a smile and a wave of her fingers. “Come eat with me?” The entire table, including Sophie herself, shifts down by one chair so that the center seat is free for Adrian.

“Of course,” he says, and strides over with all the effortless confidence of someone who only understands rejection by definition, not example.

Sophie lights up like a Christmas tree when he nears and folds his long legs into the offered seat. He’s so tall I can only imagine his knees bump into the bottom-side of the lunch table, but he manages to make the movement look as graceful as everything else he does.

I’ve never been starstruck by Adrian Ellis – and certainly not enough to ask if I can buy his lunch – but I can’t say I’m completely immune either.

After all, I’ve got eyes, and handsome’s a painfully inadequate word for Adrian Ellis.

He’s so pretty it makes my teeth hurt.

The dark curly hair that kisses the nape of his neck, long, thick lashes, and a wickedly sharp jawline are a dangerous combination on their own, but with his tall swimmer’s build cultivated from years as Lionswood’s swim team captain, his looks are downright deadly.

An aristocrat as recognizable by the slope of his nose as he is by the Rolex on his wrist.

He’s also an Ellis, and even in a school full of trust fund babies, he’s operating in a league of his own. He’s the one percent of the one percent of the one percent – which means, one day, he’s going to inherit more money than God.

So, I can’t really blame the student body for jumping at any opportunity to try and shimmy into his good graces, though good looks and wealth aside, there is one thing about Adrian Ellis that’s always given me pause.

His eyes.

You’d think someone who regularly volunteers his time at the local hospital, heads up the school-wide anti-bullying commission, and probably, for all I know, climbs into trees and rescues kittens, would have the warm, kind eyes to reflect his altruistic lifestyle.

And you’d be wrong.

His eyes are empty. Devoid of kindness, of light, of any kind of human warmth – and so dark it’s unsettling. If eyes are supposed to be the window to the soul, Adrian’s soul is looking pretty hollow from where I’m sitting.

“I’m excited about your party this weekend, Adrian,” Sophie tells him, leaning in close and tugging on his bicep. I think it’s meant to be a loving gesture, but with her pointed acrylic nails, it looks more like a claw closing around its prey. “I actually planned the Adams Banquet last year. We held it in London. My cousin was there, you know. Duchess Camilla.”

Right.

Duchess Camilla.

A second cousin by marriage, and dubious as her connection to the British monarchy may be, she’s never hesitated to lord it over the rest of the student body.

She spends another two minutes listing off her party-planning qualifications and Adrian gives an Oscar-worthy performance of pretending to care.

Maybe I’ve just got an active imagination – the guy’s clearly a saint.

I take another begrudging bite of pea soup, and watch as Mickey snags a tray and heads straight for Sophie’s table. Lionswood’s best and brightest have filled it to the brim, and nobody seems particularly interested in making room for Mickey – not until Adrian chimes in.

He gestures Mickey over and people move and switch and rearrange like it’s a game of musical chairs till there’s just enough room for Mickey to squeeze in. Sophie’s smile wanes as she repositions, but she doesn’t argue with Adrian.

Nobody does.

His favor is the golden ticket around here, and while I can’t say what Mickey’s done to earn it lately, I suppose I should just be glad that one of us has.

I can keep my head down for one more year.

I glance at Mickey’s tray, and there’s a twinge of satisfaction when I realize he’s eating the split pea soup too.