Chapter 3
THREE
If you’re in the top classes at Hannaford, they start at seven a.m., which seems like cruel and unusual torture to me. Why punish the high achievers?
Even after nine solid hours of sleep, the longest I’ve ever managed without an injury or illness, I still want to pitch my phone at the wall the moment the alarm rings.
I manage to get up and look human in my crisp uniform, even squeezing in the time to put on a little makeup to try and hide the dark marks under my eyes. I don't need to give the other kids any more ammo. There’s plenty they’re saying about me already from speculation alone.
My scholarship pays for exactly three daily uniforms, two sets of sporting tracksuits, and a formal uniform for representing the school at social functions.
This means I have to be very mindful of what happens to these clothes, because the school skirt alone costs more than a month’s worth of groceries back home, and there’s nothing I hate more than wasting money I don’t have.
The dining hall is basically empty, so I get to sit close to the door as I stuff my breakfast into my mouth. I wish I had the time to savor the fluffy scrambled eggs and crispy bacon, but I'm on a serious time crunch. Instead, I inhale it and then grab an apple on the way out.
My first class is history, and I let out a sigh of relief when I see a seating plan posted on the door.
I'm at the back and sharing with a male student, Harley Arbour.
Avery is at the desk in front of us, and Ash isn't in the class, which is great because I don't want to be called trash this early in the morning. It’s harder to rein my temper in when I’m still seething at being forced into functioning before the crack of dawn.
It's like a gut punch when I realize that Harley Arbour is the stupidly hot guy from the courthouse, and I now have to share a desk with him three times a week. He smells incredible, not just clean but inviting, and I find myself angry at him for it.
I’ve never really taken much notice of guys.
I’m not interested in being knocked up and abandoned like my mom was.
It was easy enough in Mounts Bay. All the guys in my grade had that air of desperation that comes with teenage hormones and poverty.
Students at that school were living below the poverty line, and everyone was going hungry.
I couldn’t look at any guy without getting the distinct feeling that they just wanted an escape from the bleak hole that was their life.
Plus, it was well known that I was associated with Matteo. They all steered clear of me.
None of the boys at Hannaford appear desperate.
They all have the means to be here, they’ve never struggled for anything, and I quickly learned that with money comes looks.
I’m not saying that only rich people are attractive, I know that’s not the case, but they can all afford to take care of themselves and show their best side every day.
There isn’t a single girl I’ve seen yet that doesn’t look plucked, primped, and plumped within an inch of their life, and all the guys are sporting Rolexes, coiffed hair, and expensive cologne.
Harley winces when he sees me at the desk, but he sits and methodically empties his bag.
His handwriting is much neater than mine, and he already has notes from the textbook we were assigned.
All of this conflicts with the gangster image I’ve formed of him, and my eyebrows raise as I take it all in.
He might just be the person to beat in the class.
“Your name is Eclipse?” His voice drips with venom. Fucking rich boys.
I answer without looking at him. “What can I say, my parents were hippies.”
That's not even close to true, but it's an easy lie I've told a hundred times.
It's much easier than saying my mom had a conversation with the moon one night and decided to dedicate her unborn child's name to it.
That kind of story comes with blank stares, or worse, they figure out she must have been high.
I wonder how many kids can say they spent the first three weeks of their lives detoxing from heroin in a NICU? Lucky me.
“Whatever, Mounty, just don't cheat off my notes. I can see you eyeing them. I don't share, I don't want to work as a team, and I'm not fucking helping you.”
A laugh rips out of my chest in shock. He doesn’t even look at me; his eyes stay glued to the front of the classroom.
I have enough sense to wait until the curious looks around us quit before I mutter back to him. “I don't need your help. Why would I need help from some gangster kid? Steal any cars recently? What the hell are you doing at this school?” I say, and the words come out harsher than I intended.
Shock flits across his face, but it's gone as quickly as it was there. He turns and looks at me with such intense loathing; I recognize the look instantly and swallow roughly. My survival instincts clearly didn’t wake this morning with the rest of me, but damn, who would have thought a school full of rich assholes could be just as volatile as Mounts Bay High?
I have to remember I’m not the Wolf here. I’m at the bottom of the ladder with no friends, no allies, no hope.
He snaps at me, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Of course he didn't recognize me. Why would he remember seeing me there? I only remember him because he's, well, utterly drool-worthy.
“I was at the courthouse yesterday for my emancipation. I had to sit and listen to the detailed description of your summer activities.”
He shoves away from the desk roughly and turns on me.
I’m hit by the size difference between us both again, only this time, he’s barely a hand-span away from me.
His shoulders are wide and filled out, like he knows his way around a gym.
The words tattooed under his jaw flick as his muscles clench tightly in rage.
“Listen here, you little bitch—”
“Harley. I will deal with it. Focus on your schoolwork.”
My head snaps around at Avery’s voice, but she hasn't even bothered to look at us. What the hell? Deal with it, like I'm not even a person?
Harley hesitates, like he'd rather rip my head off himself, but then the teacher is stepping into the room and he gets situated back at the desk. I glance around to see wide eyes in every direction.
Great.
I've just pissed off one of the alpha males at this school.
Ms. Matherson introduces herself as she hands out a pop quiz to each student.
“I like to start out the year understanding what my students already know, so we don't accidentally cover old subjects. Anyone who does not get eighty percent or higher will be moved into the lower classes.”
At least a half-dozen students groan. I glance through the pages and I’m relieved to find I know all the answers.
My biggest concern with coming to Hannaford was that my research was wrong and that I'd be behind, thanks to my public-school education.
I spent the entire summer break reading all of my textbooks cover-to-cover. Twice.
I have all three pages filled out in under three minutes. Harley glares at me as I put down my pen, but he finishes up less than a minute later.
Ms. Matherson collects our papers with an haughty look thrown at me and grades them while we wait on the rest of the class.
Harley flips through his notes like he's grading himself from memory, and I'm forced to stare around the classroom in silence.
It's pretty clear that at least four of the students are going to be lucky if they get to stay in the class; the panic is easy to read in their posture as they slouch over their work.
“Oh dear, Mr. Arbour,” says Ms. Matherson, and Harley's head snaps up to look at her. His eyes are wide.
“You got ninety-nine percent, with only one question wrong. A very good score.”
He exhales, and then his eyes narrow. “What's wrong with that?”
“I know you enjoy being the top of the class. Miss Anderson got a hundred percent. I don't think you've ever been beaten in my class before, so I hope you’re up for a challenge.”
If I thought he had looked angry when I'd called him a gangster, it was nothing compared to his face now. Avery turns to smile at me, but it’s the smile of a predator who has identified their prey. Dread leaves a trail of ice down my spine.
Maybe keeping my head down at Hannaford isn’t going to be as easy as I first thought.
Despite the incredible menu, the idea of sitting in the dining hall after being stuck with the other pompous assholes in my classes sounds like torture, and I desperately wish I could eat out in the sunshine on the grass.
Back at my old high school, lunch times were assigned by grade, and every inch of the cafeteria was covered by security cameras.
They didn’t work half the time, no one was monitoring them even if they were, and it was easier than breathing to have any evidence they might have recorded destroyed, but at some point, someone put in enough effort to hang them up.
We were given twenty minutes to eat, which was laughable because more than half the students went without food on a daily basis.
The school’s social worker was supposed to be present for the entire lunch period, but the old hag never showed up.
Mandatory reporting was a pipe dream at the best of times, and even the students who were going hungry didn’t want to waste time talking to CPS when we all knew they weren’t going to do shit for us.
Hannaford’s dining hall runs more like a ritzy buffet restaurant, with students from all four grades mixing together and free to come and go as their schedules allow.
The teachers still eat here as well, but they don’t monitor or reprimand the students around them.
God, we all might as well be invisible for the way they look through us.