Insincerely Yours

Prologue

“Sorry, sweetie, but we’re closed for the day,” says Mrs. McCall, stating the obvious.

I watch in horror as cleaners and repairmen rush in and out of the library to address the water leaking from the broken pipe overhead, splattering the already-damp carpet.

The library is my sanctuary.

I’ve gotten to know the faculty here really well over the last couple of months since I spend every free moment I have in the library, and they grant me the privilege of eating my lunch here while I study.

Except…

Not today.

Without that option now, I have nowhere else to go. If the hall monitors catch me without a pass, it’s a guaranteed detention, and they even go so far as to check the bathrooms every five minutes to ensure no one’s hiding in there.

I have no choice.

I have to go to the cafeteria.

Digging into my pocket, I unfurl the pink sticky note and read the message for the nineteenth time today, but it doesn’t deliver much comfort as I make my way down the hall.

My palms are sweating more than my Uncle Paul on a hundred-degree day, my stomach feels like it’s lodged in my throat, and I’m trembling so badly that I probably look like a crack addict in desperate need of a fix.

Nice.

Waiting in line, I survey the lunchroom, looking for somewhere to sit.

As usual, all the tables are segregated by cliques, none of which would accept me in this life or the next, even if I was carrying fistfuls of money.

The only place available is the dreaded “Exile Isle.” It’s the table where only rejects sit.

If you find yourself on the losing end of a fight with your social circle, they’ll pull a Survivor and vote your ass off their island, sending you into no man’s land.

To make matters worse, it seems no one’s having any spats today.

Because the table is empty.

I’m going to be on my own.

I grab a soda from the vending machine before getting a tray and piling it up with the many questionable food options. Seriously, I’ve seen less unappetizing things on old reruns of Fear Factor .

The lunch lady gives my shaking hand a suspicious look as I give her my punch card to her. “You okay, dear?”

I barely manage to nod, sulking away with my tray of unmentionables, seeing the Isle beckoning me towards my inevitable suffering.

The “Loser” label isn’t the only thing that makes this table so dreaded.

It’s also the opposing table next to the Jocks and Jersey Chasers, a.k.a.

the biggest assholes you will ever meet, making this location the worst kind of real estate.

Exile Isle is an open invitation to be tormented.

Everyone from Trent to Sienna to him is holding court at their Kingdom of a table, and snorts erupt as I mournfully make my way to the end of the Isle’s bench.

It’s hardly a newsflash that athletes are high school royalty, but Winterborn Prep takes things a step (or ten) further.

Everyone in Ravenswood’s eastside is wealthy, save for Trent, Sienna, Patrick, and Olivia.

They’re the “Untouchables,” i.e., the children whose parents make more money in a year than most small European countries.

In other words, they could get away with anything short of murder around here.

Hell, for all I know, maybe they already had. Nothing would surprise me anymore.

I sat behind Sienna last year for World History, and I never saw her score anything higher than a sixty-eight on an exam, including her final.

She rarely showed up for P.E., broke the student dress code regularly, and outright failed the oral presentation that accounted for a third of her grade in Spanish.

Yet, somehow, someway, she made High Honors.

And who could forget back in October when security cameras caught Olivia and Patrick slashing tires in the parking lot?

Too bad the footage was “accidentally destroyed” before charges could be brought.

I know you should never turn your back on your enemies, but there’s no way I’ll be able to stomach having to look at him for the next half hour. The eyeful I have to endure on my way to the table is painful enough.

Jase Rivers may not be an official member of the Untouchables, but he may as well be.

When you’re the son of a beloved senator, you already have clout.

When your father also happens to own a major sports team and could probably buy the state of Delaware, you’ll find yourself in the Untouchable’s good graces.

It also doesn’t hurt if you’re the best-looking guy in school.

I don’t want to look, but it’s like witnessing a car accident. Except, I’m the only one in the vehicle now covered in blood.

Because I can’t turn away.

Not when Sienna prances over to Jase and sits in his lap.

Everyone’s talking about how he apparently knocked out some guy’s teeth during Saturday’s hockey game, but I doubt Jase is paying attention to any of their praise when he’s got Sienna purring sweet nothings into his ear as she nips his earlobe with her teeth.

If I had any food in my stomach, I would have already thrown up.

Jase’s hair may not be black like mine, but it’s barely a shade lighter.

The front strands hang over his forehead, obscuring his eyes as he says something too soft for me to hear, and a sad, stupid part of me wants to burst into tears at the sight of Sienna’s hands all over him.

Keeping my head down and giving them my back, I set my tray on the table when an arm slings around my shoulder.

The familiar, sickly scent of way too much cologne clogs my nose, assuring me that I don’t need to look up to know it’s Winterborn Prep’s asshole supreme, Trent Easton, who slides on the bench beside me.

I’d like to blame nepotism for him and his older brother being awarded the positions of Varsity and J.V.

quarterbacks after their father singlehandedly paid for the new football field, but the whole Easton clan are renowned athletes, even the youngest brother who’s still in middle school.

Half of the trophies in the nearby display case have the Easton name on it.

And like his father, Trent is tall and broad, with tapered blonde hair and bedroom-brown eyes that virtually every girl here swoons over.

Out of all the Untouchables, he’s the one who can make my skin crawl at the mere sound of his voice—having to feel his skin on my own?

There isn’t enough bleach in the world to disinfect myself.

“Well, look at what we have here,” he croons. “If it isn’t little, baby Birdie?”

“More like Ugly Duckling,” Sienna Hawthorne cackles from across the way, eyeing my stockings. “Seriously, where do you shop? Grandmas-R-Us? Tell me, is your vag all dried up too?”

The table erupts with laughter.

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” one of Sienna’s minions interjects. “I hear that happens to anorexics. I mean, what does she weigh? Seventy pounds? My little sister has more of an ass, and she’s eight.”

There’s no way in hell I’m going to give these assholes the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

I grip my tray and prepare to stand, but Trent anticipates the move because his arm tightens around my shoulder, the pressure pinning me back down.

“Come on, Rivers,” he barks, no doubt looking over at Jase. “Spill. Is she really all dried up, or could you not stomach having to tap this?”

Silence.

“Awww, is that what happened? You throw your ugly-ass cooch at him, and he told you to fuck off?” Trent’s laugh lowers into something far worse as he whispers into my ear. “Perhaps I’ll just have to give it an exam of my own.”

Every warning bell in my head screams Bloody Murder as I see Sienna’s posse skipping over to the cafeteria attendants, giggling.

They say no more than a sentence or two, and I watch in horror as Mr. Whitehouse and Mrs. Teller both look out into the hallway, concern painting their expressions. And just like that, they leave.

No.

No, no, no, no!

I’m literally about to scream as Trent’s free hand goes to his pants, but to my relief, he only pulls his phone out of his pocket.

Still, I’m not waiting to find out what he’ll do with it.

I try to wrench myself free by sliding sideways instead, but the asshole’s hand clamps my upper arm and drags me right up against him.

All the long while, my stupid, traitorous heart keeps holding out hope that Jase’s voice will break through the commotion, to tell him to stop, to stand up for me.

Trent lifts his cell with the video recorder function all set to film when—

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” There’s no mistaking that voice.

Jase.

He’s doing it.

He’s actually doing it.

He’s standing up to these assholes!

He—

“Any video footage you save might have her climbing out of your television in seven days to kill you.”

I’m not sure what’s worse. The fact that Jase is actually that heartless enough only to add fuel to the fire, or the fact that he sounds like he couldn’t give any less of a shit?

It takes everything inside me not to burst into tears, leaving me with a strangled cough as everyone bursts out laughing again.

Trent tosses his phone aside to tug on the front strands of my long, black hair. “Is that true? Are you like that bitch from The Ring ? Gonna put a curse on me?”

I know I shouldn’t, but something in me snaps.

I finally meet Trent’s eyes, letting every ounce of venom pour out with my words. “I’d curse you with a micropenis, but it’s pretty fucking obvious you already have one.”

The entire table goes so quiet you could hear a grain of rice hit the floor.

Thick, meaty fingers suddenly clamp around the back of my neck as Trent makes sure to conceal his hand behind my curtain of hair. I can’t hide my reaction, wincing at the surge of pain that shoots all the way up into my head at the pressure he delivers against my neck.

“Wrong move, little girl.” Hot breath hisses into my ear, Trent’s laugh void of any amusement. “We don’t have enemies here. We have victims .”