Chapter 1 #2
"Exactly," I said, tossing a flat stone across the water. "I’m a background character. I blend."
She raised a brow, but didn’t push. “Cool. I’m Shani Price. I don’t blend.”
And that was that.
No questions. No digging. Just sun, seaweed, and new beginnings.
Later that week, I asked Aunt Susan if she could talk to her friend at Royal Oaks—get my last name changed on the paperwork before the fall semester. At first, she raised a gray eyebrow and said, “You hiding something illegal?”
“No,” I said quietly. “Just… hiding.”
That was enough for her.
Shani’s dad worked as the head groom for the polo ponies in Middletown, and by mid-June we were spending every spare hour hanging around the stables—pretending not to be starstruck by the riders in crisp white pants and navy blazers, high off adrenaline and inherited arrogance.
I didn’t think I’d care for horses. Or hay. Or brushing dust off shiny leather saddles. But the barns smelled like sun-warmed wood and sweet alfalfa, and the ponies nosed my hands for apples, and I found myself liking it.
We rode sometimes—bareback across the grassy edge of the fields or slow along the beach trail. I stopped checking my phone every five minutes. Stopped caring about who was posting what, or who might be whispering about me.
I let my skin darken under the sun, freckles bloom across my cheeks. My legs stretched long and golden under denim cutoffs. My hair went sun-kissed caramel and dried salty at the ends. I started to laugh more. I didn’t recognize the girl I used to be—and I didn’t miss her.
Then came trouble.
A cocky college guy with sandy curls and a perfect white smile, who strolled up to us by the bleachers one afternoon like we were the main characters in his movie.
“You girls coming to the bonfire next weekend?” he asked, his eyes lingering just a second too long on me.
Shani grinned. “Depends. Who’s throwing it?”
“Old lot by the beach. Usual end-of-summer thing. Everyone’ll be there. Even the Royal Oaks crew.”
I felt my stomach tighten. I wasn’t ready. Not really.
Shani nudged me with her shoulder. “We’ll think about it.”
Later, as we biked home, she turned to me. “You have to go.”
“I really don’t,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road.
She gave me a sideways look. “Jade. Come on. You look like a summer goddess. Like a J.Crew ad from 2006. You’ve got that whole ‘I’m fresh and mysterious and probably dangerous’ vibe. You’ll kill it.”
I hesitated. “I don’t want people picking up on... stuff.”
“Like your world-ending anxiety?”
“Exactly.”
She smiled, softer this time. “Then don’t let them. Just come. We’ll hang out, get a little buzzed, maybe kiss someone stupid. You need this.”
I wanted to say no.
But the truth was, I did need this.
So on the night of the bonfire, I slipped into a pair of worn denim cutoffs, a breezy white seersucker cami, and leather sandals that made me feel taller. I let my hair down—salt-curled and glowing in the golden hour—and for the first time in a long time…
I felt beautiful.
Not curated.
Not filtered.
Real.
Aunt Susan dropped me off at the Polo Barn where Shani and I would sneak out later down to the beach.
Shani handed me a cherry soda and whispered, “Welcome to your new life, Jade Bryan.”
And I believed her that it could be.
The sun was low and gold as we sat on the bleachers by the polo fields, legs stretched out, sweating soda cans clutched between us. The barn cats darted in the grass, and somewhere off in the distance, you could hear the ocean crashing against the cliffs.
Shani pulled her sunglasses down just enough to side-eye me. “Okay. So before you decide to dive headfirst into the shallow end of hell, I need to tell you what to expect tonight.”
I raised a brow. “Is this the part where you give me the ‘don’t talk to strangers’ speech?”
She snorted. “No, this is the part where I tell you how not to get eaten alive.”
I took a slow sip of cherry soda. “By who?”
“Everyone.”
She flopped onto her back dramatically. “The Royal Oaks bonfire is basically the Met Gala for rich, hot people who peaked in junior year. You’ve got TikTok girls doing thirst traps in crop tops by the fire.
Trust fund babies pretending they’re edgy because they snuck in tequila.
You’ll see Snap streaks being updated every ten seconds like it’s oxygen. ”
“Sounds… amazing,” I deadpanned.
She grinned, teeth sharp. “Then we’ve got the socialite wives-in-training—girls named Caroline, Kendall, and Brynlee—who wear matching linen sets and pretend they’re seventeen going on Senator’s wife. They’re all secretly hoping to land one of the golden boys tonight.”
“Golden boys?”
She nodded grimly. “The holy trinity: Leo Holt, Tristan Vale, and Xavier Blackwell. Seniors. Loaded. Shredded. Alpha-holes with egos bigger than their trust funds.”
I blinked. “Wow.”
“Leo’s the ringleader. Captain of everything. Looks like a Calvin Klein ad and knows it. His dad owns half the coastline and wants him to marry someone whose family tree is basically a hedge fund.”
I laughed. “You’re not selling me on this school.”
“I’m not trying to.” She sat up and pointed a finger at me. “I’m warning you. Girls like us? Scholarship girls? We’re not part of the game. We’re the game pieces.”
I went quiet.
“They’ll flirt with us,” she continued, her voice lowering. “Use us. Kiss us under fireworks and then pretend we don’t exist the next day. Their parents will call us trash and their girlfriends will call us sluts—while trying to arrange an influencer brand deal in the same breath.”
“Okay, harsh.”
“But true.” She shrugged. “Royal Oaks is fake smiles and bloodline matchmaking. The guys are bored and untouchable. The girls are vicious because they’ve been raised to compete for diamonds and prenups. Everyone wants something. Even friendship’s a currency.”
I exhaled slowly. “So… steer clear of the hot, dangerous ones. Got it.”
Shani grinned. “Exactly. Especially the ones whose names start with L and end in ‘eo Holt.’”
I rolled my eyes. “Noted.”
She bumped her shoulder against mine. “Come anyway. Have fun. Drink something questionable. But keep your head.”
“I plan on keeping more than that,” I muttered.
The sky shifted to peach and violet, and a breeze lifted the scent of hay and saltwater through the air.
I wasn’t the girl I’d been in Ohio.
But I wasn’t bulletproof either.
I didn’t want anything ruining this blank slate but my wounds had crusted to scabs and this summer I grew fresh skin. Therapy didn’t hurt either and my psychologist keeps urging me to not let my past destroy my new found sense of self.
So I slipped on my sandals, rubbed vanilla scented lotion on my deep tanned skin and let my hair air dry into soft beachy caramel waves. I’d survived being digitally altered into a soft porn star online. Nothing could be worse than that…