Chapter Six
256 days until graduation
After Friday’s catastrophe of a dinner party, I was forced to admit what happened to Eloise and Winnie.
Eloise, in her usual manner, started asking questions as soon as we got back to Winnie’s house and settled on her canopy bed.
“We need to know what happened between you and Jameson,” she said.
“Yeah,” Winnie added. “You’re our best friend, and yet we had no idea why you hate the exchange student living with one of our closest friends.”
Well, they had a bit of an idea by then, but I knew it was only fair to give them all the information.
“Okay,” I sighed and leaned back against Winnie’s comforter. “But this information cannot leave this room. Understood?”
They agreed, mockingly using their fingers to zip their lips, and I trusted them full-heartedly.
I told them everything, from the meeting in the headmaster’s office to the conversation in the hallway afterward.Everything that had led up to the encounter at Logan’s.
From what I’ve gathered after going to one class on Monday morning, everyone in the entire school will soon be aware of the dilemma between Jameson and me.
I don’t have a problem with it, either. I think it is fair to make everyone aware that, after three years of being the prospective Valedictorian, I will be forced to share.
Everyone at Fairwood can see the problem, even the ones who are enforcing it, and I’m interested to see how many of them will try to resolve it.
During sculpture class is when I become informed of today’s Class Officers meeting during lunch.
Class Officers at our school are similar to a Student Council. We organize all the school events and important student body activities, but unlike Student Council, Class Officers are hand selected by the school board.
That’s how conceited private schools are; they cannot put the facade of our school in the hands of the “ordinary” students that attend it.
That’s why Logan and I are also student body president and vice president. Even though that was technically voted on by the entire student body, we still had to be approved by the school board before we could run.
And of course, it didn’t take much to win the election, not when I was running alongside Logan Callaghan.
Walking into the meeting, I take my seat at the head of the table. I don’t know many people here except for Logan, who is sitting in his usual spot to the left of me.
“Have they talked about the agenda yet?” I ask as I set my bag down.
He shakes his head. “No, Headmaster Whiting said you’re in charge today. I think we are going to be talking about dances, pep rallies, and the ski trip.”
Fairwood Prep’s famous ski trip is an annual event the senior class takes the week after winter break.It only makes sense that our senior trip involves renting out an entire ski slope for a week while we stay in a fancy hotel in New York City. We live in Connecticut after all, everyone here knows how to ski.
The ski trip is ultimately a ploy for the school counselors to get the entire senior class in a hotel together so they can con us into going to college visits, conventions, and business tours. Since it’s all disguised as a field trip, the school can get away with it.
“Are we waiting on anything, or can we get started?” I ask.
Usually, there’s a teacher here to help us produce ideas and keep us on task, but I don’t see one now.
“Headmaster Whiting said there was one more person coming, so wait until everyone is here.”
I scan the room. Two people for each grade, eight students total. “Everyone is here.”
Right on cue, the door opens again, revealing the last person I want to see.
“Sorry, I’m late,” Jameson Beaumont says, taking the seat on the other side of Logan.
“Dude, I didn’t know you were becoming an Officer! You could have walked here with me from sculpture,” Logan tells him.
“I didn’t get approved until just now,” Jameson laughs.
I decide not to entertain the idea of why the hell Jameson is here. Instead, I stand from my seat to start the meeting. As President of Class Officers, I am the one who leads meetings; sometimes, I’m completely in charge of them.
I open a new Word document on my laptop as I walk to the front of the room, grabbing the folder that has the agenda with everything we need to talk about.
“Okay, so since this is the first meeting of the year, we are going to be going over the basic procedures of choosing themes for school dances and pep rallies, getting things ready for the ski trip, and picking colors for each class t-shirt,” I tell everyone.
“How do we go about picking themes? Do we come up with a couple ideas and vote on them?” A freshman girl asks.
“Sort of,” I reply, not trying to sound too harsh. “Normally, we compile a list of themes everyone thinks would be cool, and then the seniors get the final say.”
“What do themes for dances entail?”Jameson asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, in London we don’t have dances like Homecoming or Prom, so I’m asking, what does a theme mean in terms of the dance?”
“The theme decides the decorations and overall look of the dance.” Jameson nods. “Let’s start with a list of ideas,” I say.
After the Class Officers meeting, where the freshmen asked too many questions and the juniors barely participated, I was surprisingly grateful to be going to AP Psych.
“Genevieve,” someone calls as I walk up the stairs toward the third floor.I know who’s calling for me; there’s only one person who isn’t a teacher that calls me Genevieve.
“Jameson,” I sigh in a greeting as I turn on the steps. “What do you want?”
“Nice to see you too.” He smiles almost too happily.
“Is your ego really inflated enough that you expect the people you completely fuck over to greet you with kisses and warm welcomes?” I ask.
People watch as they pass on the stairs; I already feel like a spectacle. “You know what, I have a class to get to.” I swivel my body back toward the steps leading upward.
“Genevieve.” He catches me by the wrist.
I rip it out of his grasp. “Haven’t I already told you once not to fucking touch me?”
He pulls his hands back toward his sides. “Sorry, sorry.”
I take a few steps at a time, trying my best not to trip in my Mary Janes while also keeping my skirt at an appropriate length.
“Why are you so rude?”
I turn toward him in disdain. “I am not required to be polite to you because you have a penis.”
Jameson Beaumont is not a man, he is a boy—a boy that has absolutely no power over me.
“Can you stop acting like I’m some sexist prick?” He asks.. “I need to talk to you, and you’re acting like it’s a crime.”
“Talk,” I wave him on. “If you need to talk to me so badly, then go ahead, talk.”
“Genevieve,” he sighs. “Please, come with me.”
I consider his expression, something resembling hurt is in his eyes. “What class do you have?”
“AP Psychology,” he answers.
“Great.” I continue up the stairs, waving for him to follow. “Talk until we get there.”
He nods, taking three steps at a time to catch up to me. “I’m sorry for what happened on Friday. I did not intend to make you feel like I don’t care for the cause you’re fighting for,” he says breathlessly once we’re on the same step. His voice is almost pained.
“Wow, that felt so sincere,” I flutter my eyelashes in forged admiration before resting my face entirely. “You should really take up acting.”
“Genevieve, I’m being as heartfelt as possible. I don’t want you to hate me, and I understand why you’re hurt, but I had nothing to do with it.”
“Why did you come to America?” I stop in the empty hallway, turning to face him.
“What?”
“Why. Did. You. Come. To. America?” I ask again.
He looks torn, like he’s debating whether he should tell the truth. “My dad made me.”
“Why?”
“He thought I needed something different.” I can tell that he’s not telling the whole truth by his clipped response, but I don’t mention it.
“So then, why don’t you do that and stop bothering me?” I snap. “Because, personally, I don’t think I’m the most fun person you could hang around.”
“If you think I’m doing this for fun, you are sadly mistaken,” he snaps the same way I did.
“Then, why are you talking to me? I’m trying to clarify that I don’t want your sad excuse of an apology, but clearly it’s not getting through to you.”
“I’m not apologizing because I think it’s what you want,” he sneers. “Unlike you, I have a moral conscience that makes me feel bad for what I did to you. Trust me, I would love to not be thinking of all the ways I fucked you over, but I can’t!”
“I”ll make it easier for you, then.” I step away from him. “I’ll leave you alone to have your version of a fun senior year, and you can stay the fuck out of my way.”
I push past him, shocked when he doesn’t try to stop me. He doesn’t even follow me.
I take my seat once I make it to the classroom, not bothering to look around in search of Jameson.
I’m done worrying about him.
Sitting in the diner that Eloise’s family owns, I push the finished poster toward Winnie. “Do the numbers look crooked?” I ask.
She shrugs when she looks up from her own poster. “I don’t think so, but ask El when she gets back.”
I, and all the other class officers, are responsible for making posters to display at the football field for the first game of the season, and every year, I enlist Winnie and Eloise’s help.
Some of them have player’s numbers on them, other’s just have sayings like “GO OFFENSE,” or “GET LOUD!”
Together, we take up one of the largest corner booths in the Taylor’s diner.
Eloise’s family owns this diner, making it much easier to have an entire booth covered in craft supplies to ourselves without being asked to leave.
When Eloise returns, she sets down a glass of water for me, and lemonades for her and Winnie. She is used to being a half-waiter while sitting with us.
“The three is crooked,” she says as soon as she sits.
“What are you going to do about Jameson?” Winnie asks me.
I’m looking down at my poster, redrawing the three. “I’m going to kick his ass, or get him sent back to London,” I say sarcastically.
I’m not exactly sure what the two of them thought my response was going to be. They are well aware of my opinion on this less-than-ideal situation, and they know I will do everything I can to secure my position as Valedictorian.
Eloise laughs. “I’m not sure how well that’s going to work out.”
“Let’s just not talk about it,” I reply. “Winnie, how”s ballet going?”
If there’s anything to give Winnifred Carter credit for, it’s her amazing ballet skills. She”s probably one of the best ballet prodigies to come through Fairwood.
She sighs as she picks up a dark blue marker to color in the letters of her poster with. “Don’t even get me started.”
“What did Madame Bitch do now?” Eloise asks with a scoff.
Madame Bacri is Winnie’s ballet teacher, who we have resorted to calling Madame Bitch ever since she told Winnie she needs to look less like a toy soldier and more like a ballerina.
“It’s not her. She’s just mad because my Italian fouettés have been terrible recently.”
Eloise puts a comforting hand on Winnie’s shoulder. “You’ll get it, don’t worry,” she tells her. Winnie smiles in response before we start working on our individual posters again.
“Okay guys,” I announce, holding up my finished poster. “How does it look?”
Both nod, smiling as they compliment my work.
Winnie holds up her own poster, asking us, “Do you guys think I should add glitter?”
“No,” I respond quickly, my eyes widening at the thought of glitter.
I’ve always had an issue with things that involuntarily stick to me: lint, cat hair, any other type of residue.Glitter is a whole other beast. It sticks to everything and is barely visible until I am finding specks of it on my face, in my car, on my clothes, Absolutely anywhere for weeks to come, and it doesn’t go away.
It is the most contagious craft supply, and I can’t bear to look at it.
Winnie and Eloise laugh, knowing my frank distaste for glitter.
“I was kidding,” she says.
Eloise stands from the table again. “Do you guys want fries?”
“Of course,” I say, handing her my empty cup when she holds her hand out for it. “Thank you.”
“So.” Winnie looks at me as Eloise walks back toward the kitchen. “How are you, really?”
We don’t normally do this—become all gooey and vulnerable about our feelings. Usually, I would just give a noncommittal shrug, saying I’m fine.But today, Winnie looks like she’s really concerned about me, and it warms my heart the slightest bit.
I lift a shoulder in contemplation. “I’m working on it.”